Emperor's Old Clothes

I've reached the age when one eschews new forms.
Those brave endeavors better left to those
residing in their swanky ivy dorms,
or those receiving Pulitzers for prose
that masquerades as poetry in print.
I can abide geometry as art:
Picasso, at the least, won't make you squint.
But adjectives assembled ala carte
and bent to shapes no stanza should allow;
as eyes glaze over, accolades and stars
accumulate, the poet takes a bow...
Let beatniks read them in forgotten bars,
and ooohs and aaahs dress emperors in gold,
these are not poems. And now mine's been told.