Elsewhere, Stan Apps also comes to terms with flarf:

My excretory poetry got little of my attention in Texas, because the people who liked it were people of questionable taste, people who were lazy, hedonistic, and overly fond of booze. However, they actually liked it, a point which I missed at the time. My teachers did not like the poetry they trained me to write: they merely liked the decorum and mannerisms of it (I think they still found it kind of weird, when they looked too closely at it. I was always too intense about poetry for my teachers). The loving men did not like my pseudo-Christian poetry; they only liked their misreading of it, which was that the poetry showed my deep-seated inner faith in Jesus, which they felt I was repressing. Only the drunks sprawled on their coaches who listened to my excretory poems and giggled or raised their eyebrows—only they actually liked what they were listening to in the spirit in which it was intended. But I could not find anyone important or high-minded to sanction this poetry. It would be many years before my poetry of this type found its great enabler.