Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Panties in Your Mouth: Freakshow

It’s been awhile since I’ve written freely. IDK. I feel the need to write, the desire to write and yet I feel stuck with either too many ideas or none. I’ve been reading a lot of literary magazines. People have strange writing structures. I’m not sure if I “get” it, then I feel like an asshole because my mind doesn’t work that way. Usually I feel the writer isn’t actually trying to be understood but trying to be artistic, the artist is not deliberately playing with form as a political act but only to be a rebellious literary snob. Look how fancy I can get with words, look how strangely I can rearrange them so they almost don’t make sense, but it will make sense if you know how to make it make sense. If you get me, ya dig? At first I felt intimidated now I’m just annoyed. Maybe a little jealous. They’re published so they must be doing something write right.

When I really sit and think about it I don’t get most things. I don’t generally get art—paintings, sculptures, etc. most of the time I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take from a piece and more often than not I just hate it—and to be quite honest I do not feel that hating something makes it powerful or important or noteworthy—I usually hate something because I think it’s stupid or pointless not because it offends me—other than offending me by wasting my time. The same is true for writing. Particularly poetry. What the fuck is poetry anyway? Whatever. Maybe I’m just in a bad mood but sometimes I feel that people just throw words in a hat, take them out one by one and put the words in a structure they then call a poem (which come to think of it, I believe this is an actual form but I digress.

Word. Bird. Heart. Tree. Love. Hate. The in-between. Your in-between. In between your legs. You like it when I talk dirty. Poetry.

So I don’t get “high brow” art. Does anyone really? Isn’t everyone just pretending—even the people making it, I mean seriously.

The clouds smile when you eat mussels out of bowl, your bowels are bleeding skins. Eat my shit from my skin, smile like you enjoy trends. Carrots.

Speaking of pretending, I cannot begin to pretend to like most of the “low brow” shit I see on television, in the movies and now on youtube. Why is any of this funny? Why is this your entertainment?

I feel like I am really beginning to not like anything. Perhaps that is why I turn to food. Because food I can count on not to suck. I can eat an apple and know it’s going to taste like a fucking apple. Or cheese. Or chocolate.

Is it egotistical of me to not like anything?

Blanket, couch, your face in my mouth. Teapot steaming, you wish you were dreaming, why are you reading can’t you see the postmodern bullshit streaming from this, doesn’t it make you want to slit your wrists over and over again. Or maybe just fall in love. Ice cubes. On display in your panties.

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