Popular Modern Poets Suck

I am a very bitter man - let me just start with that. 
Sour, rotten, covetous: a real unfriendly cat.
I am pulled by my own feet to places I'd not go,
But in spite of all of this, there are some things I know.

Popular modern poets have as much soul as a stone.
Went to a swaggy bar last year hoping to warm our bones.
The hosting alumni had naught of substance to say.
A stage purchased with privilege for them to classless, bray.

Now do not misunderstand, the night had talent plenty;
Students still within the trench, wealth measured in penny, 
Profound and clever insight into love and loss and pain,
Their wordplay far out fenced the hosts, wisdom kept us sane.

Host one was a sufferer of a familiar woe,
Who painted petty pictures of a weight he didn't know.
On and on he attempted to demonstrate the depth,
Of that which those just down the street weather in a breath. 

And just when we were thinking "Well it couldn't get much worse;"
A pretty cheery little thing did come to thought disperse.
Another sure as death and tax, on-fast-track success,
Whose adolescent ontology, held my soul in duress.

Instagram spirituality as wooden as you like;
No dark night of the soul, no fighting god with knife.
Nothing at all personal in it's personality,
Just trite and obtuse metaphors, gross analogy.

This was just the start of things I'm sorry to report,
Next a kind of class warfare did she boldly resort;   
Her examples of poverty were patently absurd,
Only served to prove to us her silver spoon and word.

And finally the cherry on the cringe-inducing night:
She pondered on "Why people camp" despite to her, its plight.
Why would we give up our lattes and spacious abodes?
Why this painful separation, "from all that makes a home?"

I am a home body myself, but still was blown away,
We stood with mouths fully agape at what she had to say,
Her insightful revelation, was that it makes us more,
Appreciative of all our stuff, to witness natures bore.

This is the real reason we make pilgrimage to god!
Just to visit mothers corpse, be glad we "fled the bog."
Nothing existentialist about the only essential thing;
That of which we are a part, exists only to sting.

We howled the entirety of the road homeward bound.
I am grateful for those laughs, friendship given sound;
And while we felt a little shame for how much we cared,
We praised the sharpness of the wit of those with life to share.

I promise I would never want what I have written here,
To make It's way into their hands, or fall upon their ear.
I only want our standards to be slightly more robust; 
To not go clapping like a seal, not let our engines rust.