Monday, April 16, 2007
What it’s all about, part II
In a recent entry, I posted a doodle in order to convey the core values of the Social Ironist Party. While this doodle does accurately represent us, the S.I.P. stands for much, much more. Our revolution is also about writing little poems. With the combined power of poems and doodles, scribbled in notebooks and later converted to digital format, the Social Ironist Party will undoubtedly become an unstoppable force in the political arena. Allow me to begin this new initiative with what very well may be the greatest poem ever written:
The Greatest Poem Ever Written
My heart beats flutteringly
With the exuberance of my soul.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It splashes into a puddle –
My soul, that is.
Or perhaps it was my exuberance.
Fuck it. Whatever it was, it reflected the moon,
Which is beautiful, like a block of French cheese.
Who’s horny?
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I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath. I realize that the beauty of my divine artistic expression can be overwhelming at times, so you might want to look away from your computer screen for a moment before I hit you with the next poem....
This one is about what happens when you forget to view life in clean-cut terms of black and white, good vs. evil, right vs. wrong, which is an ignorant way of thinking since the world closely resembles Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and is very simple to understand. So before you go off and listen to opinions that aren’t your own, don’t say I didn’t warn you. With this poem:
Pluralism:
Being a pluralist is sort of like being a Hindu, except that you don’t believe in Hinduism, although you can’t not believe in it. But still, you are a Hindu, although you can’t claim to be any sort of Hindu. As a Hindu, which I am, and am not, among other things, I might enjoy basket weaving, and snake charming, but I’m an American, so I want it my fucking way: I want to charm a snake into weaving me a basket so I’ll have a basket in which to charm a snake. While this may seem unlikely, and circular, as a pluralist, I cannot know for certain that it’s impossible, and it might even be linear. I can’t deny that snakes are incapable of weaving baskets, because I would not be so arrogant as to deny anything. Thus, I’m stuck waiting, cuz it might still happen - how can I know? And while I would enjoy charming a snake in a basket (and also not enjoy it), I’m an American, so there’s no chance in hell I’m weaving a fucking basket, unless I want to, which I probably don’t, although I can’t deny that I might. Why the hell would I want to weave a basket? Because the American in me is sometimes overridden by the pluralist and I realize that in the hell I can’t deny, there could possibly exist both baskets and chances, both which may or may not be woven, but not by Americans.
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Ok, I’m not sure if that last one is even a poem, it might be better described as a paragraph. Whatever the form, I’m still going to turn this crap in to Miami University and get a Masters degree for poetry. Now, to restore universal balance I shall publish something that fits neatly into rigid a poetic format, the sonnet:
Sonnet on Sonnets
The form controls every line that I write
I keep my thoughts shallow like M.T.V,
as long as it’s rhyming, it can be trite.
Form may be grueling, but now I can see
ten syllables give readers orgasms.
Men cream their pants from this written handjob,
while women read, then break out in spasms.
I, by the way, find a corner and sob,
the pleasure I’ve caused makes me feel dirty.
I give it out to anyone who reads,
poem’s used up like whores over thirty.
Keep a copy for your sexual needs.
Ten beats per line make the language so rich,
It’s hot and sexy, now say my name, bitch.
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That’s what the campaign is all about, and when we get our video crew, it’ll be about that, too.
