Hard as it might be not to sacrifice intimacy when steering an off-road vehicle chuffing dodecasyllabics, Sidney was clearly one to essay such multi-tasking. What kept his verse from more than an occasional descent into blabber was the innovative way, locked and loaded within a syntactic frame suggesting anything but a hunter provisioned for big game, it stalked its imagery. In more recent times, poets like Ashbery have sounded the angelus of the New by reversing Sidney-esque dynamics and letting the somewhat daffy interlocutor of his verse blow smoke-rings of surmise into an air pocket heavily polluted with a turgidity for which the network of tightasses promoting greater cultural anality can take full credit . . .This is apparently a setup to attack John Ashbery & all he stands for, but I confess that I stopped reading, so I'm not absolutely sure of that. What's more amazing is that the Contemporary Poetry Review appears to be charging actual money to read its archives, which are apparently full of this sort of thing. I mean, I can't even follow the fucking grammar.
Is this essay by James Rother a parody? It has to be. The author's entire technique consists of stringing clichés together in tendentious sentences.