if i were conscious of all the poetic techniques,
metaphor, imagery, pun etc.
i wouldn't write as much as do -
i'd be dealing with some sort of arithmetic,
a labyrinth of obstructions to identify with
rather than bypass - i'd be doing what
philosophers do, staging a fright with a conscious
use of words like: metaphysical, etymological,
ontological - the list goes on, but such vocab secures crutches
holding the whole thing afloat, in poetical realities:
the equivalent of pursuing identities that might
summon a critical conjurer of positive feedback
who, with nodding approvals testifies:
mm indeed a poem, mm indeed a perfected use of
a hammer (metaphor) on that plank of wood
(pun), per se, imagine replacing technique very
much akin to swimming styles with an inanimate tinge,
a stasis - the techniques surrounding the approach to
each of these Pandora boxes is unlimited,
each approach a crescendo, a total failure of Roman
bureaucracy exploited - rather than that mundane
drilling of schooled knowledge of English teachers
ably identifying techniques to such an extent that
all that remains is a noun and nothing behind it;
poetry - the act of spontaneity - synonymous thoroughly
with impromptu - sheering of innocence - the act
of formidable maddening - hysteria par excellence -
spoken like a true addicts, never mind the alcohol,
even though i drink i'm still quiet sober when i infatuate
myself with verse, then the real drinking begins -
piquant - i wrote it because i just love the -quant sound
of things, meaningless indeed, but meaningful that i
could have uttered the sound, and by doing so the resonance
would have a little condo in the universe,
a little place for itself... it still ****** me off what they did
to Brain Wilson - marmalade pop, sure, but it was the sixties!