(Skip to the end of the poem to the prose, where there’s a brief book review and my daily rant, if you don’t feel like reading the weird poem below)

Entrenmentsome, laffter is boogyworthishness

Trish, Trish, lilkompoop, bellyache, chin, chin

Beetlebottle, blimplekinkin, simpefillion

Vaet, vaet, croak, croak, beep bop boop

Tchaw, Tchawoon! din dina din din

Words, words, words, words mean something

Biship, bishop, bisheep, phew phaooww

Pain, pain, across my brain, hurt, hurt so bad

Cerebella-ports infected by virus, gibberish output

Vewooooop, vewooooop, blitzblitzblitz

Daching, Dachang, Kaching, Kachang, Ziiiiiip!

Lollygaggle, diller-daller, chingchongchun Kim Jong Un

Ding dong, dildo daldo, weirdo waldo, Ralph Waldo Emerson

Emerson, emmerse, immerse, disburse, disimburse, reimburse

Kzzzzz, the sound of kzzzzz, is the sound of kzzzz, poetry? yay!

Nay! Words have to form in line, wait their turn, and get rejected

Emotions are to twist and twine, siphoned, contained, and then injected

Ah, to decide upon huat is poetry and huat is not,

The word forgetting, by the word forgot

Meeeeelody, meeelody, rhythm and rhyme, hithem and hyme

L’chaim

Sin sina sin sin, sinnerman, virtuerman, badderman, gooderman

Batman!

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Ah, the sentences, they form of their own accord, if you plug the cord

to your brain when you’re done and drained, when you’re in disdain

The pain will pass, the pain will gain, the pain will stop, it’ll start again

Ah the melodies, the rhythm of the melodies, so clairvoyant tredogies

(The coming to the blank page, whizzle, whizzle, whizzle, with no reverence

Is the equivalent of a man and woman, making love without any love)

There’s a poem in here somewhere, dig it. Dig it, wig it, dress it and plop,

Plop it on that stool to be judged, read, critiqued, rejected and dropped

Hung, hungover by the gallows, over by the gallows, hungover on melo-

-dies, Melody, anniellidae, chrysomelidae, coccinellidae, terebellidae

Jink Jink Jink, Chaka Chink Chink Chink, Blimp, Blimp, Blimp, Blamp, Bloomp

Hurtle and trustle and wurtle and burtle, chew it bite it and drink that soup

Moaning Myrtle, Bracegirdle and Mr. Winston Churchill

Foaming furtle, gracecurdle and Wr. Grinston Curtle

Words, words, of their own, dance and dance, on their own

Bone Church, Bone Orchard, church and church, bone and bone

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Howdy do, Reader! That is, if any of you are still here after trudging through all that slime and grime, that mud and sludge of words that had no meaning and some that had some. Relax, I’ve not gone bonkers, or if I have then so much for the better because all the best people are bonkers. Hatter said it first.

I’m utterly unschooled when it comes to writing poetry (or for that matter writing prose but that’s a different tale), having read only snippets of the poetic greats in passing and having no access to a school or a medium of learning from where to hone my craft– that is if I had any to begin with. I still believe I have no talent when it comes to writing poetry. I don’t. It’s as simple as that. But what I do do is I capture all the sounds coming from all around and trap them in my brain and then shake my head so that everything’s emulsified in everything and nothing makes sense until all at once it suddenly does. I love Lewis Carroll. It’s unrelated in context, but I’m just saying.

I also love apples and my father is a doctor but I see him every day. I eat them in hiding in the dark of night so that the adage, which clearly states ‘an apple a day’, is rendered ineffective.

So, this what you saw, or if you were dare-some enough, read, is how poems normally reveal themselves to me. I just thought it would be funny as hell to share the ‘poem ore’ that I dig out from the recesses of my mind, for once. It’s raw, innit? But look at that beaut all covered in gray matter and goop, and if you peek a li’l closer, friend, you’ll see that shimmer within. The Arkenstone.

A friend said recently that my blog is not doing my actual work any justice. I choose to refute and disagree. Why? My blog is where I come to right away when I feel like there’s something to be said at once, in a dysenteric fashion, and I can’t hold it in any longer. It’s all poetry and fiction in the rough. All of it, yes. My blogwriting is who I am at my core. I am not above writing nonsense stuff the kind of which I wrote above and I’m fine with it.

When, and that’s when I’m writing a novel for, someone or for my ownself, I make words and stories and poems and prose wear that uncomfortable suit of grammatical, punctuational and verbial correctness and then comb its hair with edits, edits, edits, edits, numerous edits, I feel bad. The child came to me like Childe Roland to the dark tower came and lookie what I did to it. Sure, I initiated it and it was no longer a Childe but a knight or a soldier, at the least, but in doing so I hurt that poor little sport.

When I was a kid, momma said, son, you ain’t goan get no toys. It’s either words or your pecker. And a man gets tired of playing with his pecker after some time. Words are inextinguishable and to play with them, for forever and forevermore, is an act so healthy and playful and creative and just about brilliant that it’s almost divine.

I like words and the things they constitute, and I like to dissect them, hence I call myself a philologist, but I’ll admit it, I am a very amateur one. Hell, where I am in my philological quest, I might as well have just taken the first step. But at least I’ve begun. Gimme cookies for that 😀

Poem. Noun. A piece of writing that partakes of the nature of both speech and song that is nearly always rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often exhibits such formal elements as meter, rhyme, and stanzaic structure.

If I scrap away the nearly always and the often exhibits, what’s left is the partaking of the nature of both speech and song. I can be that kind of poet. I’ll be a crap poet, but I’ll be a poet. There will be some rhythmical and metaphorical allocation to it, and there will be sometimes some meter, some rhyme and stanzaic structure, but that comes later. Later as in when I’m free from my current duties (and like Legion, they are many) and have ample time to peruse the books that detail the art of poetry.

Anyways, that’s what I have to say for today. Thank you for reading.

P.S. I’m reading Cormac McCarthy and Ray Bradbury for the first time in my life (The Road and Something Wicked this way comes) and this that you read, all of it, was me channelizing (now whether I’ve done some justice to the matter that I read or not remains to be seen, if you like it, you like it, if you don’t, chalk it up to my many failures and move on) what I had read so far. They’re literary titans, both of them. And by the end of the year I plan to finish reading ALL their books and ALL of King’s books.

This has been my Year of Books and I’m very excited to see what new stuff I read and what new stuff I discover.

Here’s a picture of the book haul that I received yesterday.  Creepshow’s this awesome graphic novel, reminiscent of the 1950’s horror comics, with five funny and horrifying stories.

You’ve seen Shawshank Redemption, right? Different Seasons has 4 novellas in it, written by King, and one of them is Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption upon which the movie is based. There’s this harrowing story called Apt Pupil about a mentally demented kid and an Ex Nazi officer. This story, I read it a month ago on another copy of the same book, haunted me for 3 weeks and I couldn’t look at cats and little boys the same. There’s two other stories. The Body had a movie made called Stand by Me. Masterpieces, both story and movie.

Now, onto Joe Hill. He’s King’s son and I already feel a familial bond to King and his wife and his kids. So, I thought, might as well read what the chip off the old block’s writing, right?

It is with some shame and sorrow that I admit that I had not heard of Bradbury and McCarthy’s name until last month. Yes, such is the situation of literary oblivion in the city I live in, not that I’m not at fault. I should have read them first, should have done my research, but hey, it’s never too late. I’m reading them for the first time and I’m loving them.

I wanna write more but I’m tired and I have this habit that I have to finish something that I’ve started writing in one sitting. So, I guess, this is goodbye for the time being.

Y’all  lovely people take good care of yourselves. I’ll be back.

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