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Tuesday, November 17, 2009

«Refrigerator Haiku»

I never really did learn to appreciate poetry. It always seems to not make sense, or has to follow some archaic form. As much as they tried to jam poetry down my throat in school, I still don't really understand it.

Haikus are easy / but sometimes they don't make sense / Refrigerator.

4 comments:

  1. thats a interesting haiku right there lets see if i can make one.
    thats a fast fridge
    lets make me a good haiku
    banana peels rock

    ReplyDelete
  2. @ Stefan: If I'm not mistaken, "that's a fast fridge" is only 4 syllables.

    ReplyDelete
  3. A lot of the poetry they give you in school is crap. I used to think I didn't like poetry, but then I read some Kipling. I think they don't let him into the schools because he actually has something to say. Try The Sons of Martha, it's a poem for engineers. On the lighter side, there's Ogden Nash. Even his name is funny, and some of his poems aren't much longer. But schools only teach serious poems.

    ReplyDelete
  4. This is the poem that my Creative Writing teacher started our first class off with. Needless to say, he's my favourite teacher. (:

    "Mein Kampf"
    By Gary Snyder


    all I want to do is
    make poetry famous

    all I want to do is
    burn my initials into the sun

    all I want do do is
    read poetry from the middle of a
    burning building
    standing in the fast lane of the
    freeway
    falling from the top of the
    Empire State Building

    the literary world
    sucks dead dog dick
    I'd rather be Richard Speck
    than Gary Snyder
    I'd rather ride a rocketship to hell
    than a Volvo to Bolinas

    I'd rather
    sell arms to the Martians
    than wait sullenly for a
    letter from some diseased clown with a
    three-piece mind
    telling me that I've won a
    bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
    for my poem "Autumn in the Spring"

    I want to be
    hated
    by everyone who teaches for a living

    I want people to hear my poetry and
    get headaches
    I want people to hear my poetry and
    vomit

    I want people to hear my poetry and
    weep, scream, disappear, start bleeding,
    eat their television sets, beat each other to death with
    swords and

    go out and get riotously drunk on
    someone else's money

    this ain't no party
    this ain't no disco
    this ain't no foolin a

    grab-bag of
    clever wordplay and sensitive thoughts and
    gracious theories about

    how many ambiguities can dance on the head of a
    machine gun

    this ain't no
    genteel evening over
    cappuccino and bullshit

    this ain't no life-affirming
    our days have meaning
    as we watch the flowers breath through our souls and
    fall desperately in love

    this ain't no letter-press, hand-me-down
    wimpy beatnik festival of bitching about
    the broken rainbow

    it is a carnival of dread

    it is a savage sideshow
    about to move to the main arena

    it is terror and wild beauty
    walking hand in hand down a bombed-out road
    as missiles scream, while a
    sky the color of arterial blood
    blinks on and off
    like the lights on Broadway
    after the last junkie's dead of AIDS

    I come not to bury poetry
    but to blow it up
    not to dandle it on my knee
    like a retarded child with
    beautiful eyes
    but

    throw it off a cliff into
    icy seas and
    see if the the motherfucker can swim for its life

    because love is an excellent thing
    surely we need it

    but, my friends...

    there is so much to hate These Days

    that hatred is just love with a chip on its shoulder
    a chip as big as the Ritz
    and heavier than
    all the bills I'll never pay

    because they're after us
    they're selling radioactive charm bracelets
    and breakfast cereals that
    lower your IQ by 50 points per mouthful
    we get politicians who think
    starting World War III
    would be a good career move
    we got beautiful women
    with eyes like wet stones
    peering out at us from the pages of
    glassy magazines promising that they'll
    fuck us till we shoot blood

    if we'll just buy one of these beautiful switchblade knives

    I've got mine

    ReplyDelete

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