And when you ask how I am and I tell you I'm fine,
The only way I know for sure I'm fine is by checking, and confirming:
I'm sad!
And mad!
Comments
Kristensays
David – what the hell is this supposed to MEAN?! I don’t get it.
Sheesh, I miss posts for a coupla lousy days, and you go into some sort of weird fugue state!
Nobody ever understands my damned poems. I have this in common with Ezra Pound. Get back to work, Kristen. I’ll be back on the straight and narrow tomorrow.
Ridley, you stay out of this. Crescenzo and I are both massive poetry lovers, often spending whole evenings trading favorite lines, stanzas–even whole books of prose poetry!
Don’t worry, we’ll dumb it down when you come to town.
David
Wow! “whole books of prose poetry”! You guys must be just a LAUGH-RIOT to hang out with. Cindy and Cristie are lucky women!
BTW – I’ll have you know I won the Windsor Star’s poetry contest when I was nine, and they even put a number of my poems in the paper, meaning I am a published poet.
There’s Poetry . . . and then there’s “poetry”. I’m sure you have some great stuff David, but this was NOT one of those. Sorry!
This is actually the only poem Steve and I read. But we read it over and over again.
“i was sitting in mcsorley’s”
E. E Cummings
I was sitting in mcsorley’s. outside it was New York and beautifully snowing.
Inside snug and evil. the slobbering walls filthily push witless creases of screaming warmth chuck pillows are noise funnily swallows swallowing revolvingly pompous a the swallowed mottle with smooth or a but of rapidly goes gobs the and of flecks of and a chatter sobbings intersect with which distinct disks of graceful oath, upsoarings the break on ceiling-flatness
the Bar.tinking luscious jigs dint of ripe silver with warmlyish wetflat splurging smells waltz the glush of squirting taps plus slush of foam knocked off and a faint piddleof- drops she says I ploc spittle what the lands thaz me kid in no sir hopping sawdust you kiddo he’s a palping wreaths of badly Yep cigars who jim him why gluey grins topple together eyes pout gestures stickily point made glints squinting who’s a wink bum-nothing and money fuzzily mouths take big wobbly footsteps
every goggle cent of it get out ears dribbles soft right old feller belch the chap hic summore eh chuckles skulch. . . .
and I was sitting in the din thinking drinking the ale, which never lets you grow old blinking at the low ceiling my being pleasantly was punctuated by the always retchings of a worthless lamp.
when With a minute terrif iceffort one dirty squeal of soiling light yanKing from bushy obscurity a bald greenish foetal head established It suddenly upon the huge neck around whose unwashed sonorous muscle the filth of a collar hung gently.
(spattered)by this instant of semiluminous nausea A vast wordless nondescript genie of trunk trickled firmly in to one exactly-mutilated ghost of a chair,
a;domeshaped interval of complete plasticity,shoulders, sprouted the extraordinary arms through an angle of ridiculous velocity commenting upon an unclean table.and, whose distended immense Both paws slowly loved a dinted mug
gone Darkness it was so near to me,i ask of shadow won’t you have a drink?
(the eternal perpetual question)
Inside snugandevil. i was sitting in mcsorley’s
It,did not answer.
outside.(it was New York and beautifully, snowing. . . .
David – what the hell is this supposed to MEAN?! I don’t get it.
Sheesh, I miss posts for a coupla lousy days, and you go into some sort of weird fugue state!
Nobody ever understands my damned poems. I have this in common with Ezra Pound. Get back to work, Kristen. I’ll be back on the straight and narrow tomorrow.
That was a poem?
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My readers hate my poetry,
But they get what they pay for.
I liked it, David. I thought it was Shel Silversteinish.
Now, can you get me some of that reefer?
Steve C.
I liked it, David. I thought it was Shel Silversteinish.
Now, can you get me some of that reefer?
Steve C.
I liked it, David. I thought it was Shel Silversteinish.
Now, can you get me some of that reefer?
Steve C.
Anytime, pard.
Hey, Crescenzo – NOW who’s a “suck-up”?! Admit it – you did NOT know that was supposed to be a poem anymore than the rest of us did!
Ridley, you stay out of this. Crescenzo and I are both massive poetry lovers, often spending whole evenings trading favorite lines, stanzas–even whole books of prose poetry!
Don’t worry, we’ll dumb it down when you come to town.
David
Wow! “whole books of prose poetry”! You guys must be just a LAUGH-RIOT to hang out with. Cindy and Cristie are lucky women!
BTW – I’ll have you know I won the Windsor Star’s poetry contest when I was nine, and they even put a number of my poems in the paper, meaning I am a published poet.
There’s Poetry . . . and then there’s “poetry”. I’m sure you have some great stuff David, but this was NOT one of those. Sorry!
Let’s see your best stuff, Plath!
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Ridley’s a suck up Canadian
And real shitty poet, too
how’s the new job going, K?
This is actually the only poem Steve and I read. But we read it over and over again.
“i was sitting in mcsorley’s”
E. E Cummings
I was sitting in mcsorley’s. outside it was New York and beautifully snowing.
Inside snug and evil. the slobbering walls filthily push witless creases of screaming warmth chuck pillows are noise funnily swallows swallowing revolvingly pompous a the swallowed mottle with smooth or a but of rapidly goes gobs the and of flecks of and a chatter sobbings intersect with which distinct disks of graceful oath, upsoarings the break on ceiling-flatness
the Bar.tinking luscious jigs dint of ripe silver with warmlyish wetflat splurging smells waltz the glush of squirting taps plus slush of foam knocked off and a faint piddleof- drops she says I ploc spittle what the lands thaz me kid in no sir hopping sawdust you kiddo he’s a palping wreaths of badly Yep cigars who jim him why gluey grins topple together eyes pout gestures stickily point made glints squinting who’s a wink bum-nothing and money fuzzily mouths take big wobbly footsteps
every goggle cent of it get out ears dribbles soft right old feller belch the chap hic summore eh chuckles skulch. . . .
and I was sitting in the din thinking drinking the ale, which never lets you grow old blinking at the low ceiling my being pleasantly was punctuated by the always retchings of a worthless lamp.
when With a minute terrif iceffort one dirty squeal of soiling light yanKing from bushy obscurity a bald greenish foetal head established It suddenly upon the huge neck around whose unwashed sonorous muscle the filth of a collar hung gently.
(spattered)by this instant of semiluminous nausea A vast wordless nondescript genie of trunk trickled firmly in to one exactly-mutilated ghost of a chair,
a;domeshaped interval of complete plasticity,shoulders, sprouted the extraordinary arms through an angle of ridiculous velocity commenting upon an unclean table.and, whose distended immense Both paws slowly loved a dinted mug
gone Darkness it was so near to me,i ask of shadow won’t you have a drink?
(the eternal perpetual question)
Inside snugandevil. i was sitting in mcsorley’s
It,did not answer.
outside.(it was New York and beautifully, snowing. . . .