desolation

One reason why I fucking hate most poets is that they seem to think you have to be depressed, oppressed, suicidal, or in possession of only one functioning testicle in order to write good poetry. This misconception is probably why so much poetry is bad-- overblown, overwrought, overly sentimental, gooey, mushy, mawkish, and dead on arrival.

Here's the view out the window of my room from my hasuk-jip:



How does it make you feel? Do you feel like writing an insipid poem? Are you inspired, perhaps, to write something like the following:

the world closes in
outside, inches away
--freedom--
but I cannot reach it
I do not know
the simple pleasures of the butterfly
my wings are crushed
my spirit knows only darkness
if I am a butterfly
I am a butterfly under a car tire
sadness and obscurity my only friends
I reach in vain for the light--

Poets who live in free countries and write shit like that should be dragged out and shot in the ankles. Then they should be impaled like that unfortunate bastard in The Bridge on the Drina.

When I look out that window, this is the poem that comes to me:

I planted two daisies between my balls
See how they grow!
Oh, how they grow!

I'm skippity-skipping along the halls
my sausage is bouncing against the walls

the smell of the daisies
the reek of my crotchie
the world is my tender SLUT!

If the above doesn't net me a Pulitzer, dammit, someone's gonna get hurt.

_