Lazily simplistic articulation of my feelings whenever I go to a blog or forum of discussion about poetry, generally speaking

Like walking into a room where you instantly know you need to turn around and go home. You aren’t afraid or intimidated but boredly anxious by the act of moving over the threshold, then you would have to think to yourself about all the facets of being there, now you are ‘in the room’. There’s a gut-feeling, something hard-wired, reflexive but not like vomiting, more subtle; you walk into the room and the wallpaper is atrocious, the people are crossing their legs in a way you feel tells you all you need to know, everything about it tells you not to bother checking the other rooms–this is it, it’s all really the same. Everyone crosses and uncrosses their legs with spastic jerks, they’re screaming into phone handsets still dangling a coiled line to the floor where it ends in frayed wire. Occasionally someone makes eye contact, points at the phone handset proudly, nods slowly. You’d rather just be reading or watching Jeopardy or throwing your cat’s toy across the room. You know they all narrate themselves in the third-person, secretly, languorously, they see themselves in the strangest of Lynch’s scenes but really they’re in a boardroom, they might still be balancing their checkbooks, it’s the last thing they do before bed.