Hehe, whoops! I didn't update this website last Tuesday. I know, I know...and I didn't totally quit smoking spliffs, either. But if you actually think about it for a second, the failures of this post are perfectly in keeping with the brand of lovable incompetence I've put such an intentionally small amount of effort into crafting for myself, here. So...put that on a stick and suck it.
Today's blog post--brought to you by our sister site,
fuckyeahsassyerrormessages.tumblr.com--is about poetry.
I've been getting back into poetry, recently, thanks to Ethan Coen the Coen Brother's knee-slappingly great poetry collection THE DRUNKEN DRIVER HAS THE RIGHT OF WAY, which I've been reading in the bathroom and on the bus to and from work. It's scratched an intellectual/juvenile itch I haven't had scratched in a long time, and reminded me of the necessity of great poetry.
What do you think we need poetry for, reader?
To briefly entertain us?
To expose the poet's soul?
To capture the fervor of a moment?
To describe a deviant sex act through rhyme?
These are all great answers (except the second one)!!!! But for me, it's #4. And my poetry form of choice is limerick.
Here are some poems I wrote today:
Deep in the Amazon forest
lives a sponge so humectant and porus,
it charges a fee
just to stand there and see
it have sex with a Japanese tourist.
Two woman who loved to eat Runts
had a trick that they'd practiced for months:
They'd swallow 'em whole
then squat over a bowl
and then shit in the bowl! What a stunt!
You see that old, sick Shetland pony?
Here's a trick, if you ever get lonely:
Stand up on a stool,
grab ahold of your mule
dang, I forgot the balogna!!
The great thing about this type of poem is that you're losing the stubbornly high-brow crowd, who you don't want anyway, the stubbornly low-brow crowd, who you don't anyway, and the limerick-hating crowd, who are 96% of the population. (Also, I'll be the first to admit that these particular poems are B- at best.) But it's still a bigger audience than you'd have if you wrote a poem about what it's like to be you. That's just gross.