I think I'm just going to be okay with my drive for narrative close. I'm going to be the anti-L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poet, using my words to oppress you. I'm a word dictator (redundant phrasing, huh?) But don't worry, I'm a benevolent despot and will endeavor to entertain you while simultaneously thwarting your will.
An orange poem for thee and thine:
In this special offer, I give my readers
Answers that Occam's Razor dictates they
Already know. Why no spiders? Because there
Are no oranges. Why birds? There are always birds,
And the river doesn't move because it's not
A river, after all. Reader, if you've worried
All this time about me, don't: this island,
Like all islands, is a paradise. Why did you go,
And where? I know exactly, and satellites
Aren't sinister -- they do nothing but relay
Our laughing phone messages. You're arriving
Any day now and so there's nothing wrong here,
Nothing wrong and even the orphans are just
Funny phonies whose mamas love 'em very much.
That's a bit of an odd one, I guess, and I don't know how well it stands up independently of the other poems that make its context. I'm trying to figure out the next move for my increasingly paranoid and fractured narrator.
In the meantime, I'm working on some bookbinding projects and the website for ye olde tiny tiny press. The bookbinding is what I need now -- some kind of physicality. I want to stick things together and poke them with knives.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
