I didn't feel like writing today, so I decided to publish a poem I wrote when I was eighteen. I thought it'd be funny. But it's not. It's just painful. I wince and run.
Have you ever viewed the memory of your young self as someone else - not you? I just did. Ouch. Such a dramatic young thing: candles, black book, Baileys and milk, Alice in Chains playing in the background for inspiration...
Fortune sweet thief
Rise crazy in my breath,
Let me be ugly beside myself
Steal my body away
To another place,
beside myself.
I want to be beside myself.
Let me drift crazy -
Roam animal over network circuitry,
Traipse leviathan over ground,
Laugh Medusa:
Dine on pearls:
Turn towers into domes.
Hot words to raise me up
Fill me up
Spit me out
From the belly of the whale:
Slough off gray skin.
Its membrane is boring me.
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3 comments:
Why such a chicken? The only things that feel young about this poem - other than the wanking disclaimer - are the "I want to" statements (we've all written reams of this kind of poetry) and the reuse of the same metaphorical adjective biznass, like "Traipse leviathan" (soo cool) and "Laugh Medusa" (also cool, but so close to the former it loses punch, right?). Yeah, shit, don't tempt the demons of high school poetry. You're opening a box of thunder way more vile than anything "disgusting" you've managed to drum up here. Like, rhymes and shit.
Oh and the last line. Yes, the last line warrants a disclaimer, ("This ennui is KILLING me!") or better yet an EDIT. Damn...
Yeah. Yeah. Critic as artist.
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