Jan 2018
poetry is a very unforgiving art,
hardly the gay science -
poetry is: the science of hubris -
a relentless ***** and sure as hell:
a ******* father...
and why this conclusion?
current poets have forgotten
shame -
experiences are not
acted upon shamelessness -
all loves are ideals -
no, poetry is not a welcoming
figure,
the more i entertain
writing in this abode the more i'm
gesticulating: rot,
abhorrence -
poetry - that uncaring *****
of a mother,
and only because i've spent
the past month engrossed in
a novel -
i'm disorientated -
align two versions
of the same time -
only last year god's wrath
by Kraszewski -
and this year with
Sienkiewicz third of the trilogy
ogniem i mieczem...
90 quid lighter
and i'm labouring to extract
my money's worth from ponderings
VII - IX -
how retiring writing
such poor, disorientated verse -
but no wonder...
i am disorientated -
i can hardly excel at keeping
things terse -
strapped to the awe of
having finished a novel -
i am emptied -
but such is the necessary
transition welcome,
in that i can fathom
a lessened sense of worth...
novels exhaust
a rekindled "urgency"
to write...
mind you:
to have honestly read
a novel is to curb all ambitions
to write...
thank god i feel
more a disgust to write -
no impetus gratifying -
rather than some sort of
constipation / writer's block...
honestly:-
sarcosanct -
blowing air into
a balloon seems more important
these days than
filling a blank page with words...
at least the balloon sinks
add another: and its a pair
of *******;
talk is cheap,
thought is worth a penny -
how are we to not eat off
the nihilistic corpse with
the same retort exhaustion?
unfortunate for the art
that so few are shameless -
and so many ideal -
it will forever sound:
too good to be true;
i have finally succumbed
to being, exhausted.
hardly the gay science -
poetry is: the science of hubris -
a relentless ***** and sure as hell:
a ******* father...
and why this conclusion?
current poets have forgotten
shame -
experiences are not
acted upon shamelessness -
all loves are ideals -
no, poetry is not a welcoming
figure,
the more i entertain
writing in this abode the more i'm
gesticulating: rot,
abhorrence -
poetry - that uncaring *****
of a mother,
and only because i've spent
the past month engrossed in
a novel -
i'm disorientated -
align two versions
of the same time -
only last year god's wrath
by Kraszewski -
and this year with
Sienkiewicz third of the trilogy
ogniem i mieczem...
90 quid lighter
and i'm labouring to extract
my money's worth from ponderings
VII - IX -
how retiring writing
such poor, disorientated verse -
but no wonder...
i am disorientated -
i can hardly excel at keeping
things terse -
strapped to the awe of
having finished a novel -
i am emptied -
but such is the necessary
transition welcome,
in that i can fathom
a lessened sense of worth...
novels exhaust
a rekindled "urgency"
to write...
mind you:
to have honestly read
a novel is to curb all ambitions
to write...
thank god i feel
more a disgust to write -
no impetus gratifying -
rather than some sort of
constipation / writer's block...
honestly:-
sarcosanct -
blowing air into
a balloon seems more important
these days than
filling a blank page with words...
at least the balloon sinks
add another: and its a pair
of *******;
talk is cheap,
thought is worth a penny -
how are we to not eat off
the nihilistic corpse with
the same retort exhaustion?
unfortunate for the art
that so few are shameless -
and so many ideal -
it will forever sound:
too good to be true;
i have finally succumbed
to being, exhausted.
