I saw a graphic that decreed I write whilst drunk. I wasn’t going to subject you to that but I was drunk and the influence of an imaginary stranger held magical sway. Sorry. On second thought, fuck what you think.
I saw a girl do a poetry reading at an open mic at a bar around town. She said she was like Jack Keurouac because she wrote her poetry half cocked and rather erratic. Which means it was bad. If you have to claim that it’s in tribute to your hero, it’s usually bad. There’s nothing wrong with bad poetry if you recognize that your offering yourself up to be devoured. It’s like stand-up in that regard, throw it out how it is and let the audience eat and regurgitate. Before this becomes a hypocritical rant, know that I liked her poetry for where her heart was at the time but on a haunting and technical level, it was a bit jumbled. Happens.
I suppose what I’m trying to get at is that honesty makes how shitty you are okay. If you recognize it, then it can be your advantage. If you know the demon’s name, you control the demon. It’s like that with concepts. This is bad, this is rank and horrid in fact. However, this shitty forest must be traversed if we are to get to the smoothly grammatical meadow. If it doesn’t suck in public, no one can watch you grow. That would be a hypothesis if I added a ‘Then’ in there before I said ‘No one’. That makes this damn close to science. Welcome to sophistry, the realm most people play in.
Logic is illogical. Otherwise paradoxes wouldn’t exist. People have a bullshit detector that is intuitive and we often play around in realms of abstract thought for the sake of masturbating our consciousness. I should read more before I continue on this subject but I’ll surely just read a philosophical proof about how no one knows what the fuck is going on around here. Sounds awesome. Then it becomes a fight for who can say “I don’t know.” The most poetically. Maybe I’ve watched too much Doug Stanhope lately but I feel like a reaffirming Fuck You needs to be spread around before summer fully keels over and croaks like a reptilian old timer who slipped on their own loogie. Did I mention this was for Mark Twain? Yeah, he wrote his blogs half cocked as far as I remember…