MANY AN INNOCENT READER HAS FALLEN TRYING TO ADVOID THE INFLUENCE

GHOST LOVES TO DRAG HIS FEET THROUGH THE MENTAL CLIMATE

DO POEMS MEAN SOMETHING IN THE EXPERIENCE OF THE POET ?

POETIC INTEGRITY IS A MIGHTY LADDER OVERLOOKING THE BARREN EXERCISES

WORDS WITH THEIR NATIVE SIGNIFICANCE SNOOPERS OF THE FIRST DEGREE

MANY AN INNOCENT READER HAS FALLEN TRYING TO AVOID THE INFLUENCE

 

About multiplemichael

"EVERYWHERE I LOOK I SEE IMITATIONS OF THE REAL THING"

Posted on January 27, 2013, in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Seriously. Maybe write about a cat please. Or a fucking monkey. Tell us how you feel when you see a flower, or that shitpile by the side of the road. Write something that will be loved by five hundred fucking robots who were programmed by other robots. Oh isn’t that duck so cute? How about that goose? No, that’s a duck! What a startling moment. What an inspiration. Oh look, and here’s a snowflake, let’s describe how it falls and sticks to another snowflake, and ruminate about how ice procreates by sticking to itself, and oh the woe of the melt and the thaw and the inevitable slithering into the gutter. And woe is me, I shall never be a momentous poet unless I spew self-same chunks of similarity and uniformity at that blackboard over yonder field, that field bordering some eternity of undeniable bliss and sick piss. And even if some flaming idiot describes how a tank might drive around that wasteland, they just never seem to satisfactorily blow it all up. Somehow, they always avoid destroying this reality, because we don’t have skin in a game that threatens us with… threatening. Oh oh and hey, look yonder, there’s a terrorist incident in Mali, I better write a touching poem about how that makes me feel, because that way I am not just wholesome and human, I am making a contribution; I am changing the world and bringing into it some brightness. Poor begging orphan child with arms blown off! I will write you a poem and make you feel better. I will even include a duck. Or a goose.

    What the fuck. There are no innocent readers. Only susceptible ones. Darling lovers and their fawning spouses stuck to new age erotic fiction modelled on a vampire’s diary interspersed with lesbian doctors encumbered by neuroses spawned by childhood traumas relating to over-small automobiles and second-tier designer clothes. Snoopers? No, they’re snipers, with big heavy guns that only shoot into the sky and knock down planes, but that’s okay, we’ll write heavenly poems about those too, the way they majestically fell from the sky and careened into mosques made from orphan bones. Shit. We just turned art into statistics. It happened about three years ago, I’m sure of it, there was like a tremor up here that everyone assured me was an earthquake, but I know what the fuck is going on, I know what that was, and goddam but did I read a lot of poetry about that, until I realized that poetry died. It expired. It had its day, but now it’s rotting. I am willing to pick up those pieces and give it a go, inject it with some energy to give it rise, but there’s only a few fragments left. Hard to find. Little plastic pieces in the compost pile, shards of glass even.

    And then we have your ghost fellow. I wish him well. But he is in for a rough ride.

  2. i’ll be honest and just say that i’m wordless.
    i talked to anne sexton and asked her opinion on how i was to respond.
    she said that she felt some type of movement up the evolutionary scale.
    she said that not only were YOU a good scout but also a great samaritan.
    that’s a real flattering remark.
    thanks for all your input
    mister trent !!!

  3. Response to poem: Which came first? The poem or the experience of it… the essential idea in this piece and I appreciate that.
    Response to comment: Snoopers is the appropriate term here. Words work like gossip. Innocence is possible. Snipers belong in another poem.

  4. Well, given that Anne has already ascended to the ultimate rung on the evolutionary pole by converting herself into mindless carbon dioxide, I am highly flattered. Always good to visit here.

    As for mr. rompoetry, I concur with his assessment, but I’m sticking by my guns on the snipers. They are taking pot shots at me as I speak.

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