My past turns inside out,
Closing in around me,
Seamlessly folding inward.
As from a great height
I see myself undulating
Backward, flat black, shiny red.
Inside my cobalt blind eye
Saturn, sweet gyroscope
With your tiny loving baby moons
In consort, reclines.
The great generators
Are humming under the earth.
Come to take me down
To the secret factories
Where the eggs, glistening & wet,
Are set out in beds of ooze.
Extinct taxa, phylogenetic relic,
I am named: vampyromorphida.
My blue blood, bioluminescent mucus.
My webbed arms raised in alarm.
In the wordless depths of
Endless pressure, I glow
In fear or anger, invaginate
In self-transforming introversion.
Great Mother, Amnios, save me
From this terrible dream of myself.
Doomed template, karmic code.
arrest bourgeois poets now
ReplyDeleteANSTEIGEN!
Dear Anon:
ReplyDeleteI think the fact that you tend to overstate your case, or frame it with expletives or racial slurs, tends to give your target an easy ethical escape-hatch.
The more inflammatory and irrational your remarks seem, the less likely one is inclined to take your observations to heart.
I'm not heavily invested either in my own reputation as an author, or my standing among those who post literary trash on the internet. I gave up writing for 25 years, and only recently have returned to it. I published hundreds of poems in well-known literary periodicals of the 1970's--all of which, for better or worse--are now forgotten. Before making any ultimate estimations of my accomplishments it might be best to take that other evidence into some account. If this is bad work, so be it.
I tend to think that work that I can't fairly estimate at first, may have potential. But there's always the chance that it will seem awful after some time has passed.
Actually Fagville, it's nothing but rationality, but yr...a bourgeois poet and therefore don't understand it, dreck
ReplyDelete