Poets
have suddenly sprung out of the earth everywhere, like one of those
American towns where annoying chripy crickets emerge every 17 years
in order to eat all the leaves, and leave dessicated insectoid
corpses rotting all over the ground for months afterwards.
Poets
are hard to avoid. A truly dedicated poet can insist on trying to
make you read their latest work in any social situation, and if you
claim you are awaiting a phone call from a girlfriend in Guatemala
that can only be made in that time window, they will roll up their
sonnet and try and stuff it down your eye socket directly into your
brain.
Avoid
that, and they will follow you home and hide under your bed, and read
it out as you sleep, subliminally imprinting your brain with
pretentious imagery as you dream.
A
favoured word of peripapatetic pub poets is “Desolate”. Every
couplet mentions it, and every stanza that doesn't mention it has an
air of desolation about it anyway. Relationships are desolate.
Loneliness is desolate. Friendships involve a profound sense of
desolation, and mental health is as desolate as the surface of the
moon after a nuclear war.
Frankly,
everything is far too fucking desolate.
But I
have a suggestion. The next time a poet offers me a tract that
features too much of this “D-Word” I will have them transported
to the most barren desert in the universe, under a sun that blazes
with so little mercy it would happily incinerate a starving child who
had just watched their mother murdered. There they will write
“Desolate” in the sand with a stick a thousand times in words one
mile long.
And if
they fail to complete that task within a year, a goat headed demon
god from hell will appear, and give them an enema of burning sand.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 22.02.14
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