Poet (n.) are always and necessarily epigones; their consolations soothe only for a moment, and by discharging the passion that drives the discontented they hinder real improvement.
The Poet (n.) poses as knowing every trade to the bottom, is praised by those who don't know, and ends believing in his own veracity — then discredits ordinary reality so his dream passes for 'real reality'.
A Poet (n.) not in love with reality has a muse who is not reality, and she bears him hollow-eyed, fragile-limbed children.
The Poet (n.) is the people's flute, repeating popular wisdom mixed with popular folly so newly that they — and he — believe a god speaks through him: as vox populi he counts as vox dei.
The Poet (n.) sends his thoughts out veiled like women in Egypt, only the deep eyes showing — and they are overpriced, since one also pays for the veil and one's own curiosity.
A Poet (n.) lies too much — and Zarathustra too is a poet; we know too little and are bad learners, so we simply have to lie.
A Poet (n.) muddies his water to make it seem deep.
A Poet (n.) is mocked as a liar — no wooer of truth but a cunning, preying beast that must knowingly, willingly lie — a mask to itself, prey to itself.