Prose on Poetry

Poetic Rant, Poetry

Dear diary,

I decided to write in you again, because I got bored with reading another one of those goddamn books. I fell asleep for about an hour after reading one page of their poetry, it was so boring!

All the kung fu, pandas, ninjas, and teddy bears fell out of my brain. It was intellectualizing. I hated it.

All the fish king pow, floating globula, and booger monsters melted outta my head. All the venomous sea snakes, harpy eels, anti-eating hippopotami, doo-hickey ding dong donkey doo bats, bear balls, and googly-eyed lambchops; all of them. They all melted.

I stabbed my eyeball with a toothpick last line: I needed the stimulation so bad. I hated every moment of it. Every parallel syllable coughed against me. Every monotonous noun scraped my feelings. Every stupid idea repeated it’s foul breath all over me.

God, why does poetry have to be this way? Why does war crime mean fun? Why does spooky mean more Reznikoff and Baecker?


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