No one reads poetry.
[…] give up poetry and become an astronaut.
Tag Archives: poetry
My Muse VS. Yours
YOUR MUSE: a frumpy feminist who doesn’t even like you or your poetry; a clipped-face mean-hair nag of a PC hag, a harridan of the nanny-state who inspires boring identity politics-driven free verse. Your muse smells nasty and has bad teeth. Yours voted for Hillary and loves Maya Angelou. Your muse barely tolerates your tepid unpoetic soul but she smiles a fake smile and lies to your face. Yours coerced you into publishing that e-book no one ever downloads. Your muse is unamusing, unmusical and moos like a cow. Mine mews and purrs like a sleek feline friend while sinuously scribing heroic couplets in the air with her tail. Yours grunts superficial Haiku through her snout then heads for her feed-trough in the mire. Your muse is a dumpy data-driven bureaucrat. She made you recite in a monotone to three medicated listeners at the yearly event. Your muse hired a social media specialist to market her product that no one wanted. Your muse so boring she saw logs in a Z shape. But her wood so wet it won’t light.
My muse is ergonomically sustainable in exquisitely X-rated epiphany. My muse laughs eternal rivers of lyrical light over the fact that your muse made you recite that silly stuff at the poetry slam. My muse loves me almost as deeply as I love her. My muse is utterly and brilliantly poetic. One tiny point of light refracted from a single facet of her diadem will vaporize your merely mediocre muse. My muse is beloved of all true poets, for she stepped forth from the riven crown of the lyrical Father himself and was washed in the wellsprings of divine inspiration. You are utterly unworthy to even fantasize about kissing my muse’s beatific, shining and holy ass. You wouldn’t recognize MY MUSE if she knocked your post-modern skull with an Alexandrine sonnet. My muse gazes upon you for a millisecond and you writhe like an academic insect pinned to a collection board. My muse sneezes on you— and you get published in Atlantic and people yawn. Your muse makes entire English Departments nod off and then wake up and leave early. My muse gets me high, drives me home AND pays my bail. In cash. My muse is an orthodox blood-washed Christian saint, elect of God and alive forevermore, shining wisdom personified, mother and sister and daughter of lyrical love. Yours is a lying crypto-Marxist troll who had to pay an ogre to artificially inseminate her and even then she could only conceive misshapen dull-witted free-verse freaks who whine about micro-aggression while they limp to the nearest safe space where they curl up in fetal position and scrawl confessional existential incoherent dullness.
My muse rocks. I love her more ever since she kicked your muse’s unpoetic butt.
IMAGE CREDITS: efedra.tumblr.com
quartermoon.us
transformativestates.com
therealrevo.com
Eternal Recurrence of the Future
There are only 2 ultimate destinations possible, philosophically and spiritually:
FAITH (leading to salvation in Christ) VS. NIHILISM (dressed up in many ways, leading to despair).
In this charming little home movie we celebrate the second option.
The film has been reviewed previously HERE
The filmmaker, Reverend Ivan Stang of the Church of the Sub-Genius,
is a faithful prophet of BOB.
His disciple, the Reverend Magdalen, waxes eloquent concerning nihilism HERE.
Dada Knows Best
Rebellion—for too long the status quo,
is, in our day, a predictable show.
Antichrist irony, absurdity
shockingly daring incongruity
no longer shock the bourgeois, you know . . .
Alone in the temple of glass with a rock,
you’re out of traditional symbols to mock.
Surrealists did it much better than you—
and it meant a lot more in ’32.
You chew your cud on the cattle-wagon
overused shock-tactics—moo !—now draggin’
or herding aboard the iconoclast train
(b)lowing through boxcars your bovine refrain:
“to, um, make people think . . .” Oh Lord, how uncouth.
Nihilist narcissus—tell me, what’s Truth?
Must creative always be subversive?
I discern, in your frenzied discursive,
a dull and predictable lack of life.
While you brandish that plastic butter knife
I seem to note, in your constant thrust,
dearth of artistic ability. Must
bohemian acolytes (some yawning)
ever be deer in the headlights, fawning
before the ironic gesture? It’s sad;
the bitter is sweet but the art is bad. . . .
They circle hors d’oeuvres on opening night
like moths around white wine in candlelight,
cerebrating in a modernist void:
contemporary aesthetes, overjoyed
to know once more that life has no meaning;
the planet is doomed; that kings are queening;
that chic just arrived, escorting philosophy
(Forgive us, Duchamp, for all this monstrosity).
I long for Hudson River School sunsets
Old Dutch Masters, religious art, portraits,
Red, green, or black propaganda-art? NO !
The view does not merit the price of the show.
I’m dada-ed to death, beyond the surreal.
Conceptual gimmicks have failed to conceal
your want of ability, values, and faith
In the book you despise it is written: thus saith
the fool in his heart: that there is no God . . .
You: Postmodern Art—to the firing squad!
CONNECT/HOOK 