Poetry: the modern art of the literary world.

Woman…

woe-man…

whoooa-man.

She was a thief,

you gotta believe

she stole my heart

and my cat.

Betty, Judy, Josie and those hot Pussycats…

they make me horny,

Saturday morny…

girls of cartoo-ins

will leave me in ruins…

I want to to be Betty’s Barney.

Hey Jane… get me off this crazy thing…

called love.

greetings to the fans of dom, though small in number you may be.  i hope this latest offering finds you in good health and leaves you in good spirits.  if you have not guessed, the theme of the day is poetry.  allow me to begin by making one simple statement:

i hate poetry.

thats right, i said it.  i hate poetry.  it is a cop out.  a sham.  a bunch of crap spewed on a piece of paper that someone thinks is pretty.  its the modern art of the literary world.  anyone can write a poem, because there will always be someone else who says “wow, thats poetry”.  the only thing that makes a poem a poem is because the writer, or the more laughable title, poet, says its a poem.  if i put this paragraph on a piece of paper and said here read my poem, someone would find deeper meaning in it and call it beautiful.  dont deny it, you know its true.

please allow me to site an example from my own book of “poetry”:

The Bad Match

It takes a man to hold a toothpick and go up against a man with a ten-foot sword.                   I’m not afraid of spiders cause I’m bigger than they are… but i don’t kill ladybugs.               It takes a woman to push a watermelon out of a lemon.                                                               I like juice, Hitler didn’t.                                                                                                                     He just needed a hug.                                                                                                                           The rabbit went nuts all over the snake; it just curled up away from the cottontail.                 The Polish could have been that bunny,                                                                                           too bad somebody threw that holy hand-grenade.                                                                       What if Spanish moss spoke French when the wind blows?                                                         And what is the speed of Dark?                                                                                                         Lilly white skin, dark hair, satanic shirts,                                                                                         I don’t want to associate with those people.                                                                                   Hey, you should have died your hair black and wore Tommy Hillfiger.                                     All the glow in the dark shit just shrunk up.                                                                                     I wash all my clothes in cold water,                                                                                                   that’s it, no separation.                                                                                                                       Lazy bastard.                                                                                                                                         And all the rest were just crappy love poems.

this poem i wrote in my poetry II class at KSU.  i took every creative writing class that good old khaos U had to offer, some twice.  my intro to creative writing class was supposed to encompass all creative writing, it focused primarily on poetry.  that class, and the consecutive poetry classes were less fun than gouging out my own eyes with a spoon.  a dull rusty spoon.  (though i still love and admire my poetry teacher, Bob King. maybe someday he’ll see this.)

but, anyway, this poem was my greatest achievement in poetry.  i know this because my teacher and fellow students of the craft said so. it was read anonymously as we all sat in a big circle. no one knowing who authored such deep and moving penmanship.  we talked and waxed philosophical about all its deep meanings and infinite truths.  we remarked on how beautiful some of the symbols were and how upsetting other symbols were, and how they came together to do this or make you feel that.  we spent so much time on this wondrous amazing piece of poetry we didn’t have time to go over another poem that day, it was that riveting to all who read it.  and then the time came for the “poet” to fess up and explain his work.

imagine their surprise when i explained to them all that i wrote this poem, quite simply in a matter of minutes.  i sat in a corner of the smoking lounge at the student center with a few friends and listened to all the various conversations going on in the room, and just jotted down snippets that i heard with a few crazy one liners from me and my friends to keep the reader really guessing.

no deep meanings.

no infinite truths.

no symbolism.

just vomit on a page.

and i called it a poem.  and said “here, read my poem”.  now tell me friends, is that poetic justice?

P.S.-  i have other poems if anyone is interested. i can post them on here if you ask for them.  beware, though, alot of them are crass, crude and sexual.  i was going for the “shock factor” once i got super bored in class.  if i get alot of replys asking for them i’ll throw them up here. but once again: BEWARE.  i warned you…