i treat writing as my drinking.

the point being: fluidity.
language, if properly expressed,
properly founded
is far from conspiring to write
a novel, my novel is already
the idle chit-chat of purchasing
goods (funny how haggling
is still allowed, even though
we know the fixed price
ending of .99).
      language is not a rigid base,
it's not a raw piece of stone
waiting for a rodin-esque
sculptor to make something out
of it, and it's certainly not a
meditation on a dictionary /
thesaurus...
       i am aquarius, the language
i am providing is what two hands
held together make of water being
poured into them is,
it's the fluidity, it's what i find
by finding that the only "thing"
i can find is: fluidity...
you can't take language and serve
a mountain's stubbornness -
you have to allow the sea to
infuriate the blank page of serenity...
i never allow language to be
rigid in small-talk: hello how are you?
crap...
          language needs to be water,
needs to be fire,
it can never reside in char,
charcoal or anything and everything
unmoveable, sisyphus would
concede this fact...
   there is no effort, there is no attempt:
there either is, or there isn't;
don't try, trying brings failure,
do, and do, even if it's a "failure".
you can't expect me to remould
a dictionary, the arrangements are
already too varied, and you can't
expect me to leave a trace of a
protruding signature of a thesaurus...
sure, i write poetry:
   every poet dreams of writing a novel...
but i don't write a novel
because in between this "scarcity"
i live a novel...
        the mundane interludes of a novel
bother me enough to think my
writing as: enough.
            then again i treat writing
as water, or fire,
   and never airy fairy south eastern
english, or a raw sculpture canvas -
language is already a wriggling can
of worms...
       with that being said:
no one takes the afterlife seriously is
because: so much is alive, well,
delirious in sensual anticipation,
   too much of life, bring little topic
of a "realistic" most-mortem realism,
'cos' there isn't any!
            so please, don't give me
this stale inanimate crap,
              don't treat language as a
labrador on a leash with you the blind-man
at the end of it...
language is not rock, it's not air,
it's the fluidity i'm interested in...
    write me a poem as if a dam is about
to burst, give me tsunami language...
give me traces of spontaneity...
  you give me a piece of writing as
rigid as a wheelchair marathon "runner"
i'll give my honest opinion...
     you should overflow with
the ultimate freedom of what the god of gob
said: blah blah blah...
           i don't deal in cute,
i don't deal in pretty,
carnations i can mind...
          but the sort of poetics that is
insulated in: requires a metaphor,
requires a metaphor... who's identifying who?
with that sort of poem, the poem
ends up asking the poet: you sure you're
not a plumber?
   there's but one technique:
       stick to the narrative, forget the rest;
there's only one "technique" in poetry:
the narrative;
write as if impotent, suddenly getting
a hard-on, never imagining to turn
to a ******-boost of the congestion of
spotting a genre, from a "genre";
there's no point writing with this transmutation
of the categorical "imperative" -
             there's only water...
or there's the zenith of
   *s. t. coleridge - water water, everywhere,
nor any drop to drink.
point being: write fluid,
         and make your reader thirsty.
writing has a lot to do with the newly
emergent art of: cuisine;
have you noticed the emergence
of the art of culinary antics?
               cooking is the new painting;
seems that painting has become shoo
****, that the chefs had to intervene
(minus the sean connery).