This poem was created using a technique I call Frankenpoeming. It’s where I take a few lines or a phrases or an image from the poems I’ve been reading each day & then crunch them all together — reconfiguring metaphors, smashing words against each other, juxtaposing ideas I wouldn’t have necessary considered, & just generally using them as jumping off points into something of my own.
Then I leave it for a few hours, before going over it again & editing tweaking polishing, extending weird things into things that more (or less) sense. Sometime extracting the really crazy stuff altogether — or just leaving it.
Day 20 – TILthat in 1974, the Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis published a paper titled “The Unsuccessful Self-Treatment of a Case of Writer’s Block.” It contained a total of zero words.
With this in mind, I’d like to write a poem based on the paper.
The Unsuccessful Self-Treatment of a Case of Writer’s Block (a poetic interpretation)
A different kind of day today as I played with form/function/generation a little. There is something which links all 4 of these poems (almost everything on this page in fact). I’m wondering if anyone can work it out.
Day 19 – TIL aboutmy relationship with Reality TV
Truman syndrome is a mental condition some people suffer where they believe they’re the star of an imaginary reality tv show.
You’ve got to feel sorry for those people living their sad fantasy worlds given i long ago realised that i was & am the centre the focus of attention of millions & millions of adoring fans worldwide — my family & everyone i know merely actors in a charade which makes me the rightful focus of the world’s attention.*
That being said — you’d think they’d have gotten better actors to play some of the parts
*paraphrasing words actually said by someone who suffers from Truman syndrome
A simple poem for Day 1 of the Festival of Grief; the second day of my annual wallowversary not till next weekend. Trying to combine my usual subject matter for this day with The Big O. It works okay. My Poetic Factoid has the potential to include words from other languages but I don’t really have the motivation to make it bigger today.
Day 9 – TIL about taking photographs of Victorians
where we say “cheese” as a prompt to make us grin
Victorians said “prunes” despite preferring to keep things in
Today’s volume of poetry was one of Bukowski’s I’d recently bought second hand but never read. Diving into him was like jumping into a lovely warm jacuzzi (where the water had just been freshly added & mine was the only body to have been immersed so it was all quite clean & hygienic thank you very much) — soothing, comfortable, relaxing, delightful, & I wondered why I don’t remember to read/reread my fave poets more often.
With that in mind, I set out to write a Big O poem in B style. I gave myself the added task of just stream of consciousing & not editing it (that can come later).
wedding day goat song
why’d the god-damned fool girl go & step in a snake nest for anyway it’s the stupidest damn thing i’ve ever heard & i’ve been hearing stupid damn things all my damn life
& now the wedding guests are gone home & my amphora is empty but i’m still full so i step outside to take a piss come back in pick up the amphora realise it’s empty still empty swear at the fucking gods for their sick son-of-a-bitch senses of humour
look about for my lyre till i remember i smashed it after i found her dead (my second best lyre obviously i’m not quite so stupid as to smash Hecate)
decide i’m no where near drunk enough so set out to visit Calais & see if i can drown myself in his ample cellar
Day 6 – TIL the Scots can deal with forgetfulness
title tartling tartan-style
so the Scots have a word for that brief panicked pause experienced while you temporarily un-remember someone’s name as you rummage through the haggis-baggage of your overworked, irrelevant fact-clutching, bewilderbeasted brain
all well & good
tartle is not that terrible
after all — the name’s known you’re simply having trouble accessing the correct datapoint in the outdated software system of your cerebral substance
but do these paragons of polite protocol these pontificating Pict-progeny have a word to personify that bowel-clenching juncture when you realise you’ve already forgotten the name of the person introduced to you mere microseconds ago
Today’s prompt was to write a poem that plays with the idea of a list. The example poem was a list that isn’t – it never gets beyond the first entry. I somehow mangled this with a challenge from a couple of days earlier write a poem in which laughter comes at what might otherwise seem an inappropriate moment – or one that the poem invites the reader to think of as inappropriate.
Just for today (given I don’t think it fits tonally with the other poems I’ve written) I’m including the whole thing.
Day 7 – TIL something strange about a lollipop
sweet stuck on a stick
Chupa Chups are Spanish (the name means something close to Sucky Sucks) & were designed so they didn’t melt in Iberian summer heat. They originally cost a single peseta each.
But none of these are the poetic factoid that blew me away. Their logo of brand name inside brightly coloured daisy was designed by — Salvador freaking Dalí
Aside: he also once sent Harpo Marx a supremely surreal Xmas gift — a harp with barbed-wire strings