There are certain questions shooting through your head while you sit there, And perhaps you have already started reading what i have written for you,
And now those same questions are shooting to the surface, and
I. Is this really poetry?
II. Nazrul is rolling in his grave.
IV. Why is four before three; it remains: this is not obtuse enough.
III. This is shit, if this is poetry, i can do this too.
You can, and you should.
But maybe you aren’t,
Maybe you are,
But not as much as you’d like to,
that’s where you come in.
post script wise, though, i guess i started because i wanted to harpoon various verbose sages, as is youth’s compulsion to do, (also bcoz i like how certain words sound)
but i guess, they were the lion, the camel, and the kid altogether, at once, twice, and when you harpooned one, the other’s came in to shift doubletime, and so,
the literary page of the newspaper of record read “is poetry dead?”
i type again and since i am not marty mcfly,
the headline does not change,
but rather, note: slow, something rather incredible happens,
new talent, joins the prophetic ranks, and now, to the new initiate’s credit, with copious amounts of mental gymnastics, the former son edicts that:-
“our young writers are not breaking the rules, most are just trying to mimic former greats.”
so on, and so on, so on, as zizek, amidst snorting cocaine, would say (convulse?)