Gold? Diamond? What the hell does this have to do with poetics, poesy, the whole hole of the escape-and-return of writing it?
Not studying it. Writing it, ya big boob!
Wait! For when the Muse is missin' . . .
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_s8Uk1-rGB8
Write it. Writing it. Writing it now, eh. Writhing around with the snaky son-a-bitch on the floor and wrestling to the three count win-of-it. I'll bet yer two-bit income obsessed poetry prof instructors haven't been much help with that. But then, if you're enrolled in a uni class it's likely an elective, or even worse, you're too fucking lazy to get a real job and write like a wildman when you get home. Head on fire, Baby. Hara too-ah. Yeah, that beat up kitchen table, rottin' out chair, the scrrrrratchy-stainy linoleum floor, yer computer that whirs all the while when you're using it and, with any luck the odd diamond surrounded by fibers of gold in them lines, you fool.
There, that oughta handle any more linking to this site via some college coarse-course.
Okay, no prob, Bra. A very fat man is getting into a very small
car. The car tilted to one side. "Tilted to" Minor gold. Now, The car
rocked, etc.
Much finer. Diamond. Thank You, JoeGee. Let's go here, Princess . . .
Car. Rocked. The sonics in that simple
example, eh. Sonics in that simple sample would be overkill. The sounds, you dummy! Are you a writer or not. Car.
Rocked. Something of a mirrored sound of "car" forms the sound of "rock".
Plus-and-now-also. the sound of the words "car rock" in some small way in this example-sample sound a wee bit like the sound of a car rocking suddenly. Car Rock. Reverse in some ways, sonic-wise. These are very fundamental
writing skills that are under attack by cellphone-blip text A-Holes who
think they're "writing" when in effect they're headless chickens pecking
and no more. And, as an added bonus, this approach, this slack-man
lazyboy approach to writing soon becomes the standard, leaving little
but blind readers to play with. Car. Rock. Diamond! Keep an eye or two and at least one ear out for it when you read in the future.
Good God Almost Mighty! It's a near-revelation of the revolutionary epiphany va-variety!
The piece of that sorta thing that I was near to content with, in the
last ten years anyhow, would be from a small deal I wrote for my Father,
some time before he passed on over and out of it.
Argyle socks on fallen arches,
slip-sliding 'cross the white tile floor . . .
And on it went from there to tell a little story, of being old, being
ignored, yet still having the flame brightly alive and burning even
though all the busy-busies refused to see it right there in front of
their blind ambition eyes. I was, like I said, near happy with it, with
the whole of the one page deal that took away my spare time for a couple
months. Those two lines took, damn and man, back and forth, yes, no and
maybe only maybe, a few weeks to get straightened out. Off and on, I'll admit, but often enough. Then, of
course, there was the usual of attempting to produce lines to follow it,
to complete the story being told, at a level close to equal to those
two intro lines. So, tell me about 'natural gifts' once more and the
ease of being lyrical.
But I don't know, really. Maybe the whole stinkin' thing you just read could be an example of what it's trying to say.
No idea, no worries, no muse,
no sweet dying cry.
Youse know what I meaned.
Poetics, stolen