Against the chances, I’ve overcome my life by outliving myself. It’s humorous by some means, like a foolish little joke between unfeeling gods. Manipulative bastards. An overdone steak, an overdue debt, a actuality overdose. They could not care much less. What in case your life was a joke? On turning into the primary person in historical past to say that. Dead on arrival. Not actually. In actuality, you beat the chances by surviving the sport. It all goes down straightforward sufficient and is completely legit. We’re loopy. Like the golden rule gone improper, doing unto others, together with your self. Do not resuscitate. Roll them bones and play the hand you have been dealt. I establish as a poet. Faithful as a canine. That is, contemplating my very own mythology, as having performed the function of a poet. Poet up! To be a poet or not.
Throughout civilized and uncivilized societies in historical past, the poet was generally known as the court docket jester. Timeless trickster troubadour, the comedic idiot joker; despite being the antihero of his time, I see myself in a carnival mirror of distorted physique language. Running out of drained anecdotes and sob tales concerning the detached world we trespass in. The good storyteller cliché to speak about us. That’s what makes it so humorous. Insanity works in mysterious methods. Craziness is redundant on a mad planet. Mad is the senseless ready room norm of humankind.
Life within the massive metropolis can do this to you. Leading to wreck and wreck. All these tragic scenes of a Stoic saint dying alone in a small room. Romantic because it seems in principle, it’s solely a part of the holy equation. The human situation’s fragile and reeking of sentimentality. Handle with care. Please don’t imagine the hype. Bad guys cry too. Big infants within the house age. You’re not the one person who has suffered and survived. Gosh, I had no thought how delicate I used to be. I have to be out of my thoughts. Hearing voices. Talking in tongues. A twisted language is on public show. Poetry’s the bane of my soul. All I ever wished was a little bit of peace and quiet. But you must go and muck it up by making public appearances and proclamations about poetry and poets in usually.
Nobody requested me, but when they did, I’d inform them to bugger off. Poets are nothing particular. They might delude themselves into believing they’ve a calling. A particular energy that’s almost holy. Living vicariously by the world of different poets who got here earlier than them. As in the event that they know one thing we mortals aren’t aware of listening to. The lilting, flowery voice of the poet says, we’re completely different from the common schlub schmuck. Show some civility.
Make method for the pompous ones. Those articulate idiots who babble about their plight. Lamenting their unhappy lot in life’s worst solitaire. Oh properly, born alone, stay alone, and you understand the remainder. Can you discover a blissful place? Dwell among the many immortals, my bony butt. I’ve at all times thought that poets held the ladder of tradition for the remainder to scramble to the highest of the dung heap of excessive artwork. You want a ladder to achieve such lofty heights. The old bard is dotty within the noggin. Seeing issues that are not there. Hallucinations are the bread and butter of the scribe.
What the hell is all this gibberish? Take your Jumbo manuscript to the closest city dump. This rubbish you go off as poetry provides poems a nasty rap. Have you no scruples? Poor unlucky laureate sitting at nighttime tavern, drowning in sorrow with booze and books of verse. I drank 18 straight whiskeys, adopted by a beneficiant shot of morphine. It’ll kill the strongest elegiac instincts of a young poet. The old man laments his personal ignorance and prays for launch from this curse of rhymes, rhythms, and all motive.
The distortion of the sense’s “dear hypocrites, my likeness—my brother! To the Reader,” the old canine evokes a world full of decay, sin, and hypocrisy, making a cope with the satan. Dear Lord, what number of poets does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Dunno. They’re lit in candlelight excessive above within the garret. The ivory tower of all locations is the place poets’ dwell. Closer to heaven. You can imitate the drunken sod. Accused of emulating, a coward. A beater of ladies and youngsters. An old-fashioned man’s man amongst males. The best poet of all time by no means wrote a line or uttered a phrase. Taking a vow of poverty. All it’s essential to do is look in a mirror or cover underneath a rock. That’s the place the treasure is. The bible of poetry. It’s a fantastic drawback. Take that, all you dime-store Rimbauds. A poet’s born each morning.
