something from December 2016, when I must have got up in the middle of the night or nite if you are in America
Pretentious
Poets Strike Again ©
By
Michael Casey
Now
how exactly shall we describe Pain, is it just a myth advanced by
Pharmacists aided and abetted by slick adverts on tv with wonderful
graphics of throbbing this and that. Does it exist at all? Is it just
a bad joke on Creation’s part? Shall I compare thee to a Scream on
a Winter’s night echoing through The Dark of the Night of he Soul.
Now
where did we put the Dictionary, next to our copy of the Perfect Word
by Lenny Bruce, the well know American dictionary compiler, the
coarse, the very coarse version. Or did we leave it next to our cook
book, the American guide to Hamburgers a la Macdonalds, the 1999
version. Though who uses dictionaries, they are for the mentally
weak, those with no moral fibre, we poets don’t need them, we just
make up new words made up of sounds.
If
it sounds good we use it, not forgetting a dose of alliteration on
the side, and if we get the words wrong there is always the doctor or
the priest to absolve us from our word choice. Priests are so
forgiving of our words, especially Fr. Percy, he used to be a nudist
till he saw the light and became a poet and then finally a priest, in
the church of the Church of the Totally Gullible the church of Film
Stars and Pop Stars.
But
I digress, which word shall I pick and choose, where is my Muse, it’s
hard to keep your muse, it should be chained to your bed, or was that
a bad idea I saw on Blacklist, I really must stop watching late night
tv, or was it the Brussel sprouts I consumed. We poets don’t eat we
consume, and are consumed by ideas and emotions, because we are so
sensitive, as we are Artists who teach the whole world what is Nature
in the atmosphere and deep deep deep down inside us.
I
found the dictionary in the bathroom, its such consuming reading
while one is at repose, or just sat on the toilet. Sadly a few pages
are missing, I ran out of tissue paper, the letter Z has all but
disappeared. But Z is so boring so it shall not be missed by this
Poet, nor the world of words, how many zebras have you heard of in
contemporary poetry. Not even Leonard Cohen used Z, so it won’t be
mourned, he will be mourned, but Z will not.
So
where were we, yes we were describing Pain, rather like a Rolling
Stones concert where there is a 400 years queue for the toilet, now
that is pain as one hops from leg to leg crossed leg to crossed leg,
like a frog in a kilt, and no I’m not talking about that French
Fashion person, whose name evades me right now, though he does make
rather good perfume in the torso bottle. I’m almost inspired to
write a ditty about queueing to have a sh sh well you know what I
mean, so long as its clean.
Now
I was going to talk about how clever my choice of words is, but that
would be boastful, but I am a pretentious poet, so I DO need to
Educate you, there are more letters in the alphabet other than Z
after all. In the Fall the leaves fall and gather on the ground for
walkers to walk in and squash and squish, rather like pages stolen
from a dictionary never to be used again, its all such desolation,
how can poets survive with no cheap alliteration to be found in the
leaves, Nature itself thieves them from our life from our very being.
So
Pretentiousness must end the pain killers have worked and its 5.30am
now so I need to go back to bed to finish my repose, this stink of
words must have gone up your nose or fallen down and left a mess on
your pjs or dressing gown, amongst the tooth paste stains and hot
chocolate stains. So goodnight to one and all, as the good Earth
spins I have finished blowing my own Trumpet, another night owl is
reading my words, its 3am somewhere and I hope he enjoys my prose
brought on by lack of repose. And if He wants to give everybody a
great Christmas Present, how about lowering the cost of pills, then
he would be a saviour for all our ills.
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