Fried-out, burnout, punked-out cyberpoet.

Feb 7 02:34 UTC 2001

I used to climb inside myself
take a ride along the neural subways
and admire the expression 
on every ceiling, floor, and wall
that exploded in plethoras of tones and shades
crystallizing, melting, blowing about
in fantastic imagery that recounted
so many stories of long ago.

I would run my fingers and hands
over the rich color.
Swim in it.
Breathe it.
Drink it.
Be lost for a while.
Touch it and move it to my command.

Now, I see the tunnels
stripped
and dirty, muddy, chaotic
graffiti is about.
They are scorched and burning
and smell of so much frying cerebral tissue.
I'd hop on the connecting 'A' train
to see you vendors that sold near the gate
But you oft sold cotton candy
whipped of so much witty, clever reparte
It seemed so alien
and it rarely fed me, nor could it restore
the pathways of my journeys.

It tasted so much like
"You'll never make something this good
and why even try
Notice how it makes you hungrier
but more tired when you eat."
I used to bring in my feedback
of what I thought,
but it never seemed to make it taste different
or to satiate myself.

I suppose I must depart for a while
and take the Transcendental Express.
It's been lovely, and I shall return
But take that cotton candy poetry
and cram it up your ass. 

response 2 of 16:

Feb 7 18:38 UTC 2001

(seriously, though).  This _is_ an effective poem, as evidenced by the
fact that it made at least one of its targets twitch a little.  I'm
guessing a critique would be sort of in bad taste, though.  But, it is
nice to have your voice in the conversation here (during the little
bubbles of conversation we have these days, anyway). 

response 4 of 16:

Feb 8 04:32 UTC 2001

resp:1  This was borne out of intimidation, as well.. it seemed like 
some were emphasizing wordsmithing so much that I just felt I couldn't 
compete.

brighn drives a lot of that, hard, and I'm being brutually honest 
here.  No offense to anyone personally, but I felt crushed under the 
expectation that I was having to perform to elitist tastes, and so I 
failed to be more prolific lest I risk churning out some fluffy drovel 
that no one cared for.

Ironically, "cotton candy" poetry is what I *do* favor, and so I was 
being rather oxymoronic for a bitter satirical twist.  I have disagreed 
with a number of bbs'ers here (not just in the poetry cf) in that 
fluff, candy, and bubblegum is necessarily a bad thing.

You can see I'm terribly cathartic; release of emotion always seems to 
drive my poems.  I usually cannot write poetry of high wit, 
objectivism, or clever construction.  Dan will recall my imagery of 
burnout and menustration in another poem.  Very disgusting, but it 
worked.

response 6 of 16:

Feb 8 06:13 UTC 2001

You'll never compete with remmers for pure fluff, and (despite appearances)
I have nothing but respect for him.

I also know where you're coming from, though. I've been fighting writer's
block where my pen will not move lest it produce every word a shining specimen
of what all know to be my literary genius. If you think it's hard to live up
to my standards, imagine being me and having to live up to my standards.

As for catharsis, see my new entry. Hopefully, I'm back too.

And I still want someone to write a poem with "eccliastic Jeffersonian" in
it, dammit!