Sunday, February 11, 2007
Because this is the season of love, this week's Bucket will feature a special surprise for all of you: poetry.
I know what you're thinking, poetry, Valentine's Day, my God, how cliché. Why can't you just show your love for us by sodomizing us all individually?
Truthfully, I did think about that. Over and over and over again, I thought about that. But then I figured between the plane fare and the lube, there was no way to make that cost-effective.
And before the idea of poetry (aided by the sodomy!) makes you all retch, consider: I do not write poetry here out of any kind of love. In fact, the effort put forth is being made in specific contravention to the saccharine falseness of Valentine's Day and other pre-scripted, laborious declarations of non-love love. I realize that to subject you all to poetry is an act of malicious violence. In fact, I'm counting on it. What I do I do deliberately to spite St. Valentine and his fascism of tenderness.
Bucketeers, I give you the hateful act of poetry in three forms. A sonnet, a limerick, a haiku.
My love, what shall I dare compare thee to
that hasn't been said a thousand times so
or more in the songs I hear coming through
Adult Contemporary radio?
My great fear, my love, is that if I were
to try at all I just may be compared
(oh just mentioning, my stomach bestir)
to girly half-men like that John Mayer
What sort of retard would I have to be
to lay out the red all of what I feel
not in reflection of what I might see
but with some help from Captain and Tenille?
My poesy I manage to keep part-time;
it's too fucking hard to think up the rhyme
Yes! Nailed it!
You'll see I went English instead of Petrarchan, I think for obvious reasons. Mostly because I don't speak filthy Italian.
Had enough? Still capable of feeling love? Here, feel this, you heart-having queers:
I think homeless people are yucky
they smell and their beards are all stucky
with vomit and scabies
--and that's just he ladies!--
But oh! the toothless sucky-sucky
Ha! Take that, Hallmark! Score one more for anti-sentiment.
Here's where I drive the stake home, with some devastating Oriental minimalism. Hold on to your shit.
My summer home in
St. Barts has a swimming pool
filled with afterbirth
If you can still feel anything distantly warm, well, then you deserve whatever Valentine's Day can do to you. But don't worry. If this weren't enough, I plan on keeping up the poetry onslaught all week. I am but one man fighting the fight on behalf of six billion.
Tomorrow I'm thinking maybe a sestina, an ode and a Chinese Jintishi. The theme will be Forced Penetration With A Foreign Object. I've already got the beginnings of "Ode to Razor-Wire-Wrapped Rebar" echoing around in my cranium. I know you can't wait.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0 (a must for all poetry, despite the public service)