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Poet 1
It opens with a joke which is no joke at all. The terrible and proud identification with excess of the most repulsive kind. Directness falls on impact, with no claim to the microphone. The narrative is arrested and the audience gasps.
Poet 2
All of these complaints are coming from nowhere and murmuring quietly. Several ways of saying the same thing bump into each other. Conjunction junction. For the poem may be better if the conditions of its production could not exist alongside it. Futility can of course only sing to itself. Tired refrains beg to be shot. Authority pipes up to tell us what we are thinking. But really, how could we not talk about money? Watch out for that falling parable. All that I am telling you is what I have been thinking. Music briefly appears like a rapidly bobbing curl, but then it’s time for another joke. Philosophy is peeping from a faraway window. Language blooms freely from its yoke. Beep.
Poem 3
Cufflinks. Apropos of nothing, a plea for recognition of humanity dressed as an apology. Perhaps a fictional girl justifies the whole affair. Tonal shift evokes great suspicion. Relatability, externalized, revolts. Reaching, reaching with those cufflinks. Grief whines, and we might pity the pauper if if please us. A metaphor tags along like a compatible little device, cheerfully lightening the situation. Rich people never know how to use the right proper nouns. Awkward interjections kill their own attempts at explanation with a wry smile. BOOM. Suddenly any attempt at calmness is calming. The words run away with your heartbeat. What is being explained to me? Nodding rhymes. The poem feels desperate, unnecessarily so (if you are the sort interested in necessity). The wink might not be cute. This man is a plant. His friend might even be single. Who knows who’s reading what. Bombs can’t really be overpowered by history; frankly the comparison is too moot to note — my apologies. Small, shy images might be nice if you sat with them, really got to know them. Who’s got the time, who knows. My feeling is the feeling of the icon I assimilate. Maybe you’d like to see the remains. Scenes appear without their stagers knowing why, shrugs behind curtains. We were promised a heads up, guess it’s just taking a while. If those glasses are thick enough, my thumbs are screwed. Resentful imagination ought to remain seated, a twiddling elephant in its private corner returning to the class only to demonstrate its obvious lack of belonging. But we can’t leave it behind. Big mood.
It opens with a joke which is no joke at all. The terrible and proud identification with excess of the most repulsive kind. Directness falls on impact, with no claim to the microphone. The narrative is arrested and the audience gasps.
Poet 2
All of these complaints are coming from nowhere and murmuring quietly. Several ways of saying the same thing bump into each other. Conjunction junction. For the poem may be better if the conditions of its production could not exist alongside it. Futility can of course only sing to itself. Tired refrains beg to be shot. Authority pipes up to tell us what we are thinking. But really, how could we not talk about money? Watch out for that falling parable. All that I am telling you is what I have been thinking. Music briefly appears like a rapidly bobbing curl, but then it’s time for another joke. Philosophy is peeping from a faraway window. Language blooms freely from its yoke. Beep.
Poem 3
Cufflinks. Apropos of nothing, a plea for recognition of humanity dressed as an apology. Perhaps a fictional girl justifies the whole affair. Tonal shift evokes great suspicion. Relatability, externalized, revolts. Reaching, reaching with those cufflinks. Grief whines, and we might pity the pauper if if please us. A metaphor tags along like a compatible little device, cheerfully lightening the situation. Rich people never know how to use the right proper nouns. Awkward interjections kill their own attempts at explanation with a wry smile. BOOM. Suddenly any attempt at calmness is calming. The words run away with your heartbeat. What is being explained to me? Nodding rhymes. The poem feels desperate, unnecessarily so (if you are the sort interested in necessity). The wink might not be cute. This man is a plant. His friend might even be single. Who knows who’s reading what. Bombs can’t really be overpowered by history; frankly the comparison is too moot to note — my apologies. Small, shy images might be nice if you sat with them, really got to know them. Who’s got the time, who knows. My feeling is the feeling of the icon I assimilate. Maybe you’d like to see the remains. Scenes appear without their stagers knowing why, shrugs behind curtains. We were promised a heads up, guess it’s just taking a while. If those glasses are thick enough, my thumbs are screwed. Resentful imagination ought to remain seated, a twiddling elephant in its private corner returning to the class only to demonstrate its obvious lack of belonging. But we can’t leave it behind. Big mood.
