fake poets

[bedeep]

(elseweb, someone wrote something about "real poets" that had me rolling my eyes, so I wrote this in response.)

fake poets
spray word confetti
from mouths of blunt teeth
from brains filled with
something like television
that never turns off

fake poets
think and say
their way inside bricks
get out again
using tricks abstracted
from mere mortar

fake poets
compete with hoddies
to win gravity sweepstakes
where no one's survival
is considered worth
the overtime

fake poets
breathe air eat food
bleed excrete and polish
verbal mirrors
until any random reader
can see a face

fake poets
fake it like this to play
to entertain
put on this whole show
as a way to complain
and make enough room
in the trap to stand it
because

those old fake poets
never die they just
weren't really here
at all

[Achebe]

nice! me like.

              ~Salieri

[just mercedes]

I like this, too!

[RiverNotch]

nice! me like.

              ~Salieri

Actually, I enjoy both Mozart and Salieri -- Salieri especially when he slit his throat and went all "I'm the Saint of Mediocrity! Hahaha, look at me --"

But a better comparison, perhaps, would be maybe Mozart and Haydn? Or Beethoven and Mozart -- that is to say, I thoroughly enjoyed this, just as much as I thoroughly enjoyed the poem which inspired bedeep to post this.

[bedeep]

Nicely said, RN. I confess I missed the Salieri reference.

I was really pissed off when I wrote this little diatribe, too. Anger seems to goose the muse. But point being, don't let nobody tell you you ain't a real poet.

[Leanne]

Fake poets
sit on mortarboards
that no longer fit their heads.

Fake poets
get their MFAs
by Mother Fucking Accident.

Fake poets
perpetuate the myth
that the New Yorker somehow selects
only the finest representations of the poetic art
and embalms it with holy reverence
between pages of golden mockingbird tongues
and the pearls of a swine.

Fake poets
hold up lists of publications,
present a back for patting
and a hand for speaking to.

Fake poets
have plasticised their existence
and have become the silicon tits of the writing world.
Pointing skyward, they have no connection
to the flesh.  Nothing can deflate them:
they keep the pricks to themselves.

[bedeep]

*hats off*

[Leanne]

All our tits are natural here

[QDeathstar]

I say if you like writing and you write poetry, you're a real poet. A real bad poet maybe, but a fake poet don't make no since to this one.

Maybe if you're writing a poem to get laid... You might be a fake poet then...  but bitches ain't buying that these days. So you'd just be a fool in that case



sense.

[Todd]

I say if you like writing and you write poetry, you're a real poet. A real bad poet maybe, but a fake poet don't make no since to this one.

Maybe if you're writing a poem to get laid... You might be a fake poet then...  but bitches ain't buying that these days. So you'd just be a fool in that case



sense.

I think if we consider fake those poets that wrote for the purpose of getting laid, we'd eliminate too broad a swath. Entire periods of poetry would collapse. Poor Lord Byron alone...so sad.

[RiverNotch]

Aren't the origins of poetry tied to sex, anyway? Sex and death -- the origin of everything!

[QDeathstar]

it's a different time, now.

[Achebe]

Byron got laid because he was a poetic nobleman. Keats on the other hand...I don't think he even lay with Fanny Brawne.

[Leanne]

Fanny Brawne wasn't a woman -- that's the name of his favourite dish.

[Todd]

Fanny Brawne wasn't a woman -- that's the name of his favourite dish.

If that's true, Leanne, and I have no doubt that it is, Keats was pretty kinky.

[Leanne]

Of course he was. Have you read what he wanted to do to that poor nightingale?

[UselessBlueprint]

Fake poets
perpetuate the myth
that the New Yorker somehow selects
only the finest representations of the poetic art
and embalms it with holy reverence
between pages of golden mockingbird tongues
and the pearls of a swine.

Red text was a joy to read. My time reading TNY lately has proved to show me both the good works and 'not-so-good' works.