This internet thing is a good thing. Twice.
Trust me.
It's freed the slaves in us.
To look up porn when we want to jack off. Or
fondle our collective limpness when we just
can't get
it
up.
Anymore.
It's allowed me to talk
though.
To speak to other people halfway
round the world, or
bend.
like me.
So. Even if you would rather dismiss
my nuisance blinking.
there are
100,000 more
keyboards. stroking
././ ...
the cork is out,
the bottle is full
of
smoke.
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waxing the dark side of the moon.
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September
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12 comments:
In the time it takes for one man to masturbate in his lonely bed, a million stars burn out; a million more are born.
Rivers wend their way to the sea, blades trace the curve of backbones under white & virgin skin.
Tonight we have no sense of crime.
ZODIAC BREATH
All
we really want
is a warm touch
in the morning
an excuse
not to get drunk
somebody who will
listen when
you got things
screaming
in your head
& love
a physical
emotional
embrace
but most of us
are looking
over our shoulder
at the enemy
at the person
who flushed
the toilet
when we are
in the shower
at the person
who asks us
where we have
been when we
haven't been
no place at all
we hate the
people who share
our sexual organs
& go looking
for the ones
that aren't
attainable
& if it was
just a matter of
penises &
vaginas intersecting
in the night
life would be
so simple
something that
could be bought
for twenty dollars
on our way
downtown...
Goddamn, ib~
You're almost making me wanna crawl out my shell and participate.
What strange magic you wending out in this neck-of-the-wood, anyways?
Jesus... I'm thinking (oh, pity all'a them what get that!) you might be on to something!
Ah, hell! I KNOW you're on to something, friend... Lemme try latch the tail of the comet!
hey, you changed the second half.
Thanks for the comments. Or poetic ripostes.
I enjoyed them, but on coming to out of a blinding drunk it occurred to me that one should never 'publish' a poem
when inebriated past a certain point. Write it, by all means. but don't hit the 'publish' button!
I read the second half of 'f@ck' and cringed. It was truly awful, I felt.
So. yes, apologies, men. I did indeed change the second half. It was the least I could do.
Ib, I can't recall what the pre revision poem read like, but it wasn't bad. Between this and the the portraits of Glasgow your postings took an exciting turn. Long ago I was in a writer's group. We published our own stuff, did a reading. It wasn't bad stuff and we had a lot of fun. So, yesterday afternoon, I got invited to a little party. Who should show up but half the former writer's group. We got talking and I was asked if I wanted to restart the group. I thought of you and Beer and a friend in Kansas that I send stuff to occasionally and of my former brother in law down in the desert, who has started writing again, and I said, "No, I"m working with a pretty good group of writers right now."
This, by the way, is not to be taken as an endorsement of the dangerous practice of drunk typing. Even in the days of pen, paper and the US Postal service I managed to write a couple of things, put 'em in envelopes slap a stamp on them and send 'em off before I sobered up. They were not exactly reflective of my feelings and did more harm than good. Unfortunately, I tended to believe that there was some virtue in my drunken thoughts. One ex girlfriend, offered to throw a drunken letter out, unopened. Like an idiot, I told her, "No, there's probably something there, or I wouldn't have written it." She read it, and we haven't been friends since. Too bad. She was alright.
I laughed like f@ck reading this.
Of course, Jon, the paranoid in me had difficulties with the sentence:
"This, by the way, is not to be taken as an endorsement of the dangerous practice of drunk typing."
You are all too right. I have done this myself, even with the shoe - firmly - on the other foot. There is seldom truth in drunkeness, if you are capable of going the distance. Once there, it's La-La-Land with a motor efficiency unseen in the less experienced and infinitely more judgmental.
Hey, if that poem was an example of your drunk writing, you're a better drunk writer than I ever dreamed of being. However, even the great Bukowski liked to read, speculate and maybe type the occasional page while drunk, but he did the final rewrite sober.
Well. I think Buk was right. As usual. Editing is completely necessary if one wants to get beyond LB's "Let it Blurt" scenario, which is to be advocated in turn to a certain point; beyond which we should be wary in the event that it doesn't fully articulate what we wish.
I have callede plenty of people 'cunts' when the intention was far from that; they just happened to be within striking distance, and suffered injury or slight as a result.
Very few will still give me the time of day. But the better amongst them still repair.
These days, I am more concerned with saying what I mean.
Jon,
As per usual I go off half-cocked - like Doc Holliday in a whorehouse with an ace in his shoe.
I read your second comment, but not the first regarding the party attended with a good showing from your former writers' group. I am flattered to be included in your thoughts of Beer and your friend in Kansas, in fact. I have not written in a long, long time.
If it were not for blogging, and the feedback and contact it provides, I would have given up entirely.
Were it not for Bukowski, and a small handful of others, I might have stopped reading too.
Fuck, between work, going to work, coming from work and getting ready for work I've lost almost half the hours in a week. If I manage to write a couple of paragraphs I call it "writing". My friend in Kansas is divorced. Her kids are grown and she only needs to work part time. She's writing a novel. Remember, Buk wrote short poetry until he quit the Post Office. The day he quit, he sat down and wrote Post Office. If I ever get the work thing off my back I might write four paragraphs and call it "writing".
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