Poetry?

Remember MadLibs? Those little books with fill-in-the-blank stories? Where you weren't supposed to read ahead - just list a bunch of words and then stick them into the story? Yeah, those.

Sometimes I wonder how many people who consider themselves to be poets are really just MadLib-ing. Some poems seem like incoherent strings of words that have no business being anywhere near each other.
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Staplers, ecstatic, protesting on the edges of ecstasy.
Greasy shyness bathing in the dexterity of the skerry.
Cliffs of frustrated desperation, lakes of offended hunger.
I'd gurgle with death, but I've lost all stamina.
Embarrassing, happy, I plummet and rub my arrogance,
But a century of virility washes all.

I trudge. I bathe. I cry.
The clean popsicles of jealousy grope my dreams.
All is hungry.
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Was that a MadLib? Or was that a real poem I found online? You decide.