This is a new segment I am doing. It’s less traditional poetry and more brothy bowl of language play. Mostly to sharpen my pen, but also maybe of some public interest.
They are poems done in one sitting and with very little editing or rereading. I won’t always necessarily agree with the point I am making. I may write something with firm belief, and then in the next moment, firmly believe the opposite.
Tangent here, poetry is so often some saccharine and contrite list of beliefs that are instantly attributed and fused to the writer, to their moral, spiritual, or political point of view. Sometimes we just be making shit up. Quite literally that is what a writer is meant to do. Fucking around in the firmament, being played like some lyre for angels and devils both. I think readers have forgotten we aren’t politicians.
Anyway, rant over. Here is some word soup. Spoons ready.
I am painting with spontaneous detail
random acts of artistic violence
I never had the skill to be a real artist
the patient brush strokes of some dutch master
I’ve always had to vomit it all out and sift through the detritus
I’ve finally found confidence in the way I do my art
I now believe that my method has the same value as yours does
with your oxford commas and caesura’s
hiding behind form because you haven’t anything to fucking say
my advice, to you lovely beautiful new artists
with songs in your soul
stay stupid
art is the idiots medium
expression without restriction
my job isn’t to understand what I make
or why I make it
but it is my job to make it connect
it can’t be all violence
After you vomit
you must sift through the detritus
and pull out some vital organs of your quite self
in all that puke
and then polish that thing
and frame it however moves you
and display it in your gallery
bad grammar,
dumb brush strokes,
and all.