Oh, I adore Robin Robertson. I was introduced to his writing by hearing him read it in Ottawa, in an underground pub a few doors down from the bookstore at which I worked. Thank you for sharing that!

Now, as for you.

It makes me helplessly furious when writers whose work I love beyond all reckoning say they are disgusted with it. Furious, because how dare they, that work invents new colours of wonderful; helpless, because I know what it is to feel that it isn't enough in my own work, and that no amount of my telling them otherwise will sway their opinion, because the gulf between what they want and what they do will always only be perceptible to their own inward gazes, and has nothing to do with me.

Still.

I'm only high-concept when I dream

is a poem in itself. Further, I reject the logic of your first sentence. So there.