Sep 2016
writing poetry can be rather humbling,
you have to bow before the traffic wardens,
pat the backs of bus drivers,
it is a humbling art,
there's no real canvas,
and in the digital age: there's not much ink.
you have to humble yourself
in ****** terms: great if you're a woman...
oh ****... if you're a man...
and you can't seem to ever become
"the artist" -
poetry on the side is
acceptable, but poetry written with the aghast
missing: but i'm also a plumber - is
another conundrum -
so yes, poetry is a bit like
telling Picasso he can sit among the 5 year old's
exhibition of their crayon masterpieces -
it's truly humbling...
sexually it's like
being impotent or at the very least: castration,
and never mind you actually obtaining
a castrato voice for the Vatican choir...
truly is: a humbling experience.
the philosophers attacked, then the psychiatrists,
and the novelists just wrote a paragraph
and that was that:
the hand moves, the clock ticks...
poets are leeches, the end, and a happily
ever after.
it truly is a cenobite affair -
or as one says it: a tad bit monkish -
now, plot a monk in
society: what do you get? oh sure, fervently wanking
myself to sleep, been doing it since the age of 8
before i could produce the *****:
it's subliminally muscular orientated -
nothing about the ****, let alone the jazz...
you bothered? i'm not bothered... you bothered?
i'm not bothered...
and where (if not in poetry)
would you find no characters and an uninhibited
narrator who said: well... **** David Copperfield
and Jane Eyre - i'm going solo...
and i know, i have my little
soppy story... who doesn't?
but the choke / joke of the matter is...
being exposed to solely happy stories doesn't
make you happier -
according to Nietzsche i
have no shame because i exploit my experiences -
that too... why keep a private life sacred when
it's burdened not by the shadow of a tree of
knowledge... but a crucifix?
also a tree... oh look! he's waving
a hello! god knows how he did that!
that trick is better than that walk on water...
i'm all beetroot flustered with my cheeks grin-pink.
sarcasm... or, the way to write
the less humbling sort of poetry... or to escape
musicology (namely rhyme, or the one note song
by Tenacious D) using a rickety raft that
poetry is... get the humours in,
**** the furies,
**** the fates...
ensemble: F... is a holy letter...
now the chance to hypnotise someone...
and whoever said fairies gets a bonus...
but it is, truly, humbling...
sexually it's like this motion toward the trans
movement - chop my ***** off insert a pseudo-****
and job done... inject the right amount of hormones...
grow a beard... and Thomas' your uncle...
of Bob... or Sinjit... or whoever taught you
the joke in mathematics class when describing
infinitesimal calculus (Herr Crickmore,
former trader / broker) -
(oops, left the hyphen wide) never mind,
but the thing is... even though poetry
is a humbling experience... i find novelists a bit
like lumberjacks... they're hacking a tree,
and they're hacking and hacking a tree...
and they keep hacking the ****** tree
until a tree becomes a five-hundred page bestseller
and about 1000 boxes of toothpicks
and 2000 boxes of matchsticks (roughly, jokingly,
because it's probably more) -
well sure...
i don't write poetry to entertain,
or to: "voice my concerns" -
i have very little care for the former,
and even less care for the latter -
i have no idea why there's so much
patting-on-the-back for essayists and novelists -
one clue gives it away:
they write so much... because they
could speak for so long without enough lubricants
akin to whiskey or water...
silence? well... that's an altogether different
lubricant...as it is: i hate character constructs -
and i hate an even blander narrator -
poetry is a humbling experience: after all, they treat
poets as if they're ******* when "serious" trades
provide for society -
and you know why the mentally
ill sometimes **** people? the same reason as the above
stated... the populist medical pyramid is there...
i walked past a pyramid today, well, a scrap of it:
raising money for cancer patients...
reality? 19 pence drugs to preserve life
are scraped because *** drugs are more necessary...
never seen people have more fun...
but all other ailments?
too weird... too science-fiction... don't exist.
well... ain't that nice... cancer gets the priority
and all the glamour of advertisement and
oh god... all that running the mile for charity in pink...
with Stephen Hawking levitating waving
a telekinetic chequered flag at the finish...
but the rest of humanity's ailment?
imaginary - or at least that's what it feels like.
if there was ever a pyramidal indentation in
humanity's perception, there's one now -
a hierarchy - as with cocktail parties and the glamour
of the *******-in-a-monkey-wrench literati dinner parties -
well, those pyramids are well and truly
ingrained in our minds...
and i thought that the point of hierarchy
was bound to how many holidays you took
and what sort of television you owned...
guess not... but always, always!
always that need to reach for a hierarchy...
and who were the first to voice their
concerns? the melancholic -
5 in 1, 5 in 1 year asphyxiated at York University...
and this is not the Homeric kinds...
all the time i'm
turning the huh? of the perplexity of existence
(because, to be honest,
i don't know what life is: not thinking and cocktail parties?)
d'ah ****?
sure, the old testament
said enough about the voice in the wilderness...
well... try finding a wilderness i'll find you
a nursery rhyme: Ol' McDonald had a farm...
time to see where that voice once found
in the wilderness went... oh look...
it's no longer a voice...
and it's not in the wilderness: or the farmyard...
it looks like it turned into
a thought in the abyss.
you have to bow before the traffic wardens,
pat the backs of bus drivers,
it is a humbling art,
there's no real canvas,
and in the digital age: there's not much ink.
you have to humble yourself
in ****** terms: great if you're a woman...
oh ****... if you're a man...
and you can't seem to ever become
"the artist" -
poetry on the side is
acceptable, but poetry written with the aghast
missing: but i'm also a plumber - is
another conundrum -
so yes, poetry is a bit like
telling Picasso he can sit among the 5 year old's
exhibition of their crayon masterpieces -
it's truly humbling...
sexually it's like
being impotent or at the very least: castration,
and never mind you actually obtaining
a castrato voice for the Vatican choir...
truly is: a humbling experience.
the philosophers attacked, then the psychiatrists,
and the novelists just wrote a paragraph
and that was that:
the hand moves, the clock ticks...
poets are leeches, the end, and a happily
ever after.
it truly is a cenobite affair -
or as one says it: a tad bit monkish -
now, plot a monk in
society: what do you get? oh sure, fervently wanking
myself to sleep, been doing it since the age of 8
before i could produce the *****:
it's subliminally muscular orientated -
nothing about the ****, let alone the jazz...
you bothered? i'm not bothered... you bothered?
i'm not bothered...
and where (if not in poetry)
would you find no characters and an uninhibited
narrator who said: well... **** David Copperfield
and Jane Eyre - i'm going solo...
and i know, i have my little
soppy story... who doesn't?
but the choke / joke of the matter is...
being exposed to solely happy stories doesn't
make you happier -
according to Nietzsche i
have no shame because i exploit my experiences -
that too... why keep a private life sacred when
it's burdened not by the shadow of a tree of
knowledge... but a crucifix?
also a tree... oh look! he's waving
a hello! god knows how he did that!
that trick is better than that walk on water...
i'm all beetroot flustered with my cheeks grin-pink.
sarcasm... or, the way to write
the less humbling sort of poetry... or to escape
musicology (namely rhyme, or the one note song
by Tenacious D) using a rickety raft that
poetry is... get the humours in,
**** the furies,
**** the fates...
ensemble: F... is a holy letter...
now the chance to hypnotise someone...
and whoever said fairies gets a bonus...
but it is, truly, humbling...
sexually it's like this motion toward the trans
movement - chop my ***** off insert a pseudo-****
and job done... inject the right amount of hormones...
grow a beard... and Thomas' your uncle...
of Bob... or Sinjit... or whoever taught you
the joke in mathematics class when describing
infinitesimal calculus (Herr Crickmore,
former trader / broker) -
(oops, left the hyphen wide) never mind,
but the thing is... even though poetry
is a humbling experience... i find novelists a bit
like lumberjacks... they're hacking a tree,
and they're hacking and hacking a tree...
and they keep hacking the ****** tree
until a tree becomes a five-hundred page bestseller
and about 1000 boxes of toothpicks
and 2000 boxes of matchsticks (roughly, jokingly,
because it's probably more) -
well sure...
i don't write poetry to entertain,
or to: "voice my concerns" -
i have very little care for the former,
and even less care for the latter -
i have no idea why there's so much
patting-on-the-back for essayists and novelists -
one clue gives it away:
they write so much... because they
could speak for so long without enough lubricants
akin to whiskey or water...
silence? well... that's an altogether different
lubricant...as it is: i hate character constructs -
and i hate an even blander narrator -
poetry is a humbling experience: after all, they treat
poets as if they're ******* when "serious" trades
provide for society -
and you know why the mentally
ill sometimes **** people? the same reason as the above
stated... the populist medical pyramid is there...
i walked past a pyramid today, well, a scrap of it:
raising money for cancer patients...
reality? 19 pence drugs to preserve life
are scraped because *** drugs are more necessary...
never seen people have more fun...
but all other ailments?
too weird... too science-fiction... don't exist.
well... ain't that nice... cancer gets the priority
and all the glamour of advertisement and
oh god... all that running the mile for charity in pink...
with Stephen Hawking levitating waving
a telekinetic chequered flag at the finish...
but the rest of humanity's ailment?
imaginary - or at least that's what it feels like.
if there was ever a pyramidal indentation in
humanity's perception, there's one now -
a hierarchy - as with cocktail parties and the glamour
of the *******-in-a-monkey-wrench literati dinner parties -
well, those pyramids are well and truly
ingrained in our minds...
and i thought that the point of hierarchy
was bound to how many holidays you took
and what sort of television you owned...
guess not... but always, always!
always that need to reach for a hierarchy...
and who were the first to voice their
concerns? the melancholic -
5 in 1, 5 in 1 year asphyxiated at York University...
and this is not the Homeric kinds...
all the time i'm
turning the huh? of the perplexity of existence
(because, to be honest,
i don't know what life is: not thinking and cocktail parties?)
d'ah ****?
sure, the old testament
said enough about the voice in the wilderness...
well... try finding a wilderness i'll find you
a nursery rhyme: Ol' McDonald had a farm...
time to see where that voice once found
in the wilderness went... oh look...
it's no longer a voice...
and it's not in the wilderness: or the farmyard...
it looks like it turned into
a thought in the abyss.
