"hemingway" poems
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.
now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.
and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?
if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.
let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.
22.6k
She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.
A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.
She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.
If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.
She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.
Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****
She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?
He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:23 PM UTC
Around the table,
Literacy discussion turned elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stopped to check my sense of what I had just heard...
Was transported to a prairie farm;
Thought of my Father, then in his eighties
Who felt no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare nor Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he read his Bible;
Some nights he read the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He'd shout when I suggested a novel.
What literature he had was in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way
("Storm's coming, boys! Let's get that hay!");
Cows and calves and bulls,
(Which one was sick or well, dry or bred);
Ways to diagnose mechanical ailments
("Start with the easiest options first");
Metals, to know which welding rod applied
("Aluminum sags, and cast iron cracks");
Grain, rolled crisp between hard hands,
(a test of ripeness);
Cement, to blend the perfect mix,
("Clean gravel/sand, no dirt, not too much water!);
Conservation,
("Always keep some grain on hand" &
"Keep your fuel above half-tank").
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
Spiders.
Snakes.
Late nights, due to the fact that once I saw a possum in our garage when it was dark out.
Good looking people not thinking I'm good looking.
Holding children. I might drop them.
My brothers growing up to be just like me.
Shark attacks.
Jumping off high places.
Headphones that go too deep into my ears.
Going the opposite direction of so many cars. I'm the only one going my way. They're probably headed the right way. They're probably having more fun.
Realizing that, after being on the road for a while, my high beams have been on the whole time. Sorry.
Cockroaches.
Family reunions where I'm not sure if that really attractive girl is my family or someone's friend.
Climbing up the stairs of the Bombay ride at Wet N' Wild because there just slabs of stone I can see under. I could slip and fall right through.
Enjoying bad bands.
Letting my girlfriend look into my eyes.
Talking on the phone.
Growing up.
Refusing to grow up.
Reading this over if I ever finish it and realizing that I am something less than a regular human being. Probably an animal of some kind.
Frogs.
Big animals.
Waking up one day as the same person I always have been.
Standing still.
My parents.
Not spending the rest of my life with the girl I swore I would.
Texting people too often.
My parents dying.
Whales.
My teeth being this awful the rest of my life.
Braces.
Making people think they offended me. People never offend me.
Writing anything that's ever as good as Ernest Hemingway. How dare I think that I ever could.
Running too hard. My heart might burst.
Being unreasonable. Am I unreasonable?
Sticking my finger inside an air conditioning vent in a car. I don't know if there's a fan in there. I don't know if it'll take my finger off.
Getting people's hopes up.
Letting people down.
Fish.
Bees.
Being a teacher.
My laugh.
Wearing bad clothes.
Holding her hand too hard. I might cut off circulation. She might get mad.
My brother disapproving of what I do.
Heaven because it sounds awful doing the same thing for the rest of forever.
Finding out I've been gay this whole time.
Cracking my fingers.
Being a parent.
Whales.
Final exams.
Paranormal Activity 4.
Singing on cue.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Eating insects.
Whales.
Silence.
The open ocean.
Whales.
Whales.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist
But only for us good people to forget
Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk
Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s
Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin
Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents
These days’ people know the price of everything
But the value of nothing
Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse
As I pose this question towards my own psyche;
What is the worst thing I have ever done?
In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity
All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer
Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective
Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test
When he gracefully quoted
"Now we are all son of *******
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils' tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
I thought the guy dressed up like a kingfisher
Didn’t really look like a kingfisher
His beak too long
His legs not yellow enough
But still he did a pretty good job of diving into the water
And coming up with a guy dressed up like a fish
Even though his fins looked a little too stiff to me
(No wonder the kingfisher caught him)
And the bull facing that matador
(who even had a pigtail like the one Hemingway kept mentioning --
Oh, I mean the real man not the man dressed as a bull)
He just looked too scared for a bull
Well that’s what I thought
And I’ve been to a lot of bullfights
Real bulls got more bravery than that
Sure they’re confused
But I’ve never seen one turn tail and run
Oh yeah -- and he forgot to put a tail on his bull suit
All in all it was a wash wasn’t it
Wetter than the guy in the kingfisher suit.
Still it was nice for us to dress up in animal costumes
To give the animals at least one day to have a day off
Maybe next year we’ll figure it out better
Both in our costuming and their cries
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:49 PM UTC
A breath of gin
And I'm stolen
To summer weather
Hemingway novels
And an unyielding
Lack of purpose
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I keep reminding myself, that mental illness goes along with greatness. Hemingway. Sylvia Plath. Billie Holiday. Dickens. Melville. These are just a few of the great minds that suffered from a fine madness. Should they have been medicated into mediocrity? Or lived in mediocrity because they were not properly medicated or in proper treatment?
All of these individuals: exceptional human beings.
Note: Do you want to be exceptional? Or exceptionally dead.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out
he fell in love
and cut off his ear
he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound
He painted
He painted the sky
He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields
I thought Basquiat had it figured out
******
NYC
He painted memories in the present
August 12 1988
NYC apartment ****** overdose
I thought Picasso
I thought Warhol
I thought Stalin
******
Buddha
Had it figured out
but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun
and the dog howls
howls for its mother
howls for its brother
howls for its sister
I thought the dog had it figured out
eating insects
smelling my hands
eating the ham on the floor
I thought Hemingway had it figured out
Late at night
reading Old Man and The Sea
Suicide July 2 1961
12-gauge English shotgun
I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out
I thought Ginsberg
I thought Kerouac did too
drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back
I thought Bukowski had it figured out
the cigarettes
the wine
the women
the type writer
the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible
I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out
Beethoven
going Def
Mozart lost in his grave
writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels
I thought
The drunkards were lost
The Junkies were ankle-less
The Mothers were done for
The Fathers had given in
The Young
True
The Elderly
gazing through the bifocals of heaven and hell
The Prisoners cemented in Time
I thought the Dead
were the ones who published our Dreams
I thought the painter
had it figured out
So I painted
I thought the pianist
had it figured out
So I played the Piano
and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys
I thought the Ballet dancer
had it figured out
So I watched her
I studied the movements
and the bruised toes
looking for a design of an answer
I thought the Poet
had it figured out
So I wrote a poem
and I saw the world.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Coffee in hand, she sits on a train
She smells a little like cinnamon and sage.
She hears a voice, her heart in her mouth
It isn’t him, as she fears. Absolutely no doubt.
Amongst the loud hum, she can spy at herself
So sad, so defeated, she’s like no one else.
Tears spring to her eyes as she looks at her screen
She’d been too busy living a Hemingway dream.
She won’t call him again, as he doesn’t care
She won’t let him in when he’s not really there.
She won’t be his last and she wasn’t the first
She isn’t the only girl to get hurt.
So coffee in hand, she’s no longer forlorn
For hell hath no fury like a good woman scorned.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
So many years
I've spent on the sterile land
in various cubes
curbs my soul and makes me tired.
So why not go the seas!
To experience another kind of new life;
to face the infiniteness
the wildness, and be more tough!
Great men of letters,
Melville,Mark Twain,Hemingway,etc,
all benefit lots
from their colorful life as a sailor.
Thus, to be a sailor,
a sailor, a sailor, a sailor, a sailor !
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC
what does it take to ruin someone and for them to ruin you?
I can look in your eyes and see what is true, I can
break into your motives and see why you do it, I can
take a flame to the glacier and melt your ice down, but
in my ears beating my burning heart sounds like a thunderous
cry, etching your name on my soul, when you leave there can be nothing,
I can never be whole, my mind is a solver, I crawl into blank spaces
and find underneath them the hidden, dark mazes- without the problem
there can be no solution, only when you are there can I have absolution-
you are a lock to my key that will melt- constantly forming-
into something I've lost. Every day has a morning- but the night destroys
day and the dark is afraid- I am only for you, now, forever and always
(at least til the next, when I fall in the hallways)
my heart is not open, it is a strong focused beam-
to bring light to your days, and bring hope to your dreams.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Jumanji was your favorite Robin Williams movie
Mine was Dead Poets Society
You didn’t think it was too interesting
And you fell asleep on my shoulder
When we watched it on a pixilated
2” by 5” screen
Moving at 1 ½ miles per hour
On a bus
Going 5000 frames per second
Over a burnt sandwich chips
We stopped near Michigan and State
To talk about our favourite books
Yours was As I Lay Dying
Mine was The Old Man And The Sea
We talked about the relationship
Between Faulkner
And Hemmingway
And if they ever kissed
Or shared coffee
Or at least thought about it
If Faulkner liked Jumanji
And Hemmingway was partial
To Dead Poets Society
If it turned out
They were chips of a fractured whole
Did Faulkner ever take Hemmingway home?
Does the Hemmingway house still have Faulkner’s toothbrush
On a splintered wooden nightstand?
Did they ever wake up with the wrong socks on the wrong feet
And laugh it off because it was so funny
Were they ever afraid?
Were they ever happy?
Did Faulkner write to Hemmingway
About the Post office?
Did Hemmingway write to Faulkner
About fishing?
“The old man lay dying in the sea”
We wondered if they ever wrote together
Held hands
Traded coffee cups
But you fell asleep
And I kept writing
And watching Dead Poets Society
Wondering if Hemmingway ever would have
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
some may say a man
with a beard
has something to hide
some may say a bearded man
is a lonely man
let me tell you a law
of the known universe
all great influential men
had beards
Consider this: The Soul is set aflame by the constant ruminations of the mind that venture beyond one’s stagnant self. This leads to great inspiration and ultimately inspiring others greatly.
so you see
only the bearded man can
transcend himself
List of Great Bearded Men: Frederick Douglas, Ulysses S. Grant, Ernest Hemingway, Jesus, Abraham Lincoln, Confucius, Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, John Lennon, Vincent Van Gogh, Albert Einstein, King Leonidas, Zeus, Poseidon, Billy Mays, Most notable Pirates.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 1:02 AM UTC
So I've been thinking lately
What if
he's on a journey out to find himself
reading Hemingway and Emerson (his namesake) and roughing it at Walden Pond
smoking foreign cigars
and staring deep into coffee
to decipher the meaning of the swirls of smoke
that rise from it in the morning?
What if
he's asking ChaCha! the meaning of life
or trying out a new brand of shampoo
or attempting to set a high score on Tetris
or out burning down bridges just to see them ablaze
or doing volunteer work,
reading to disabled children at the local library?
What if
he's decided that this is all too much,
that he'd prefer to live in anonymity
trading his celebrity for secretarial work or carrot-harvesting
or breeding exotic fish
or renting out those inflatable jumping-castles?
What if
he's tired of all those books in Technicolor
all the paparazzi out to get him
and commercialize his favorite beanie
just because he's on vacation because he pulled some strings at the office
thus catapulting him into some movie set halfway across the world?
What if he's sick and tired of them hunting down his girlfriend
his dog
that random wizard mentor guy that's a deadringer for Dumbledore?
What if he would rather sit at home and watch the Game Show Network
and change his name to something boring like John instead of living up to a thinker's expectations?
Or maybe just the opposite, he's just watching Family Feud to pass the time because he WANTS to be a thinker
but doesn't know how?
Or maybe Family Feud just makes him lonely because he doesn't have a real family,
just that evil guy with funny glasses and ****** hair and an awful Hamburglar taste in clothes?
What if he's decided he's on the wrong path
and needs to turn his life around?
What if Waldo doesn't want to be found?
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:05 PM UTC
*“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are*
strong at the broken places."
A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway
<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend
understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever
cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me
getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”
I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry
And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!
But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.
but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry
thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,
but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future
1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells
2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.
so here is our truth:
when,
***The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!***
our whole blood will replenish us
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
Low and wide
against the tide
A partisan -
a part of him
un - fascistionable
Poppa's boat -
- Pablo's mujer
Pilar -
for us her story
well told
- For whom
the bell tolls.
r ~ 10/19/14
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
"The best people possess a feeling for beauty,
The courage to take risks,
The discipline to tell the truth,
The capacity for sacrifice.
Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable
Yet, they are often wounded,
Sometimes destroyed."
- Ernest Hemingway
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
Around the table, literacy discussion
Turns elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stop to check my sense of what I have just heard...
Am transported back to a prairie farm
And think of my Father, now in his eighties
Who still feels no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare or Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he reads his Bible;
Some nights he reads the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He shouts, when I suggest a novel.
What literature he has is in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way;
Cows and calves and bulls -
Which one was sick or well, dry or bred;
Equipment to diagnose mechanical ailments;
Metals to know which welding rod applied;
Grain, rolled crisp between his hands, a test of ripeness...
Cement to find the perfect mix,
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into fiendishly handsome toreadors.
I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct. Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching
from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it
to leave ever
all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking
about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now
you want it to move on and make a big life
for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you
until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton
known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone
hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario
you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the
piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like
characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable
and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense
the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold
and its own episode of mtv cribs.
you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger
the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are
proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies
the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC