For every passable poem or short story that I write, I think I write a really shitty one. I was thinking about the recession the other day, and I think I saw a picture of a penguin too. My though process immediately became, “gee, penguins push each other off icy cliffs to test the waters, that’s kind of morbid, I’ll write a poem about it.” However, I forgot the cardinal rule of penguins, they are inherently funny as hell, the way they waddle. So when I combined the subject of fluffy birds in tuxedos and the RECESSION, I got something awkward and unintentionally funny:
“We huddle like penguins,
against the recession
raging and arctic outside.
We protect our nest eggs,
so some might hatch
into new cars,”
That’s all I’m posting, b’c it’s embarassing.
I think sometimes, we get too mired in our ideas, and think that they’re genius, they’re just crazy enough to be brilliant. So we execute them and end up with a three breasted sea-monster of a work.
Oh, here’s another fabulous line by Your’s Truly:
“I drove through the flat brown bowels of wintry America.”
I guess my car is a log of poo, and I’m driving it through America’s digestive tract.
Maybe I should go and write a poem about a prostate exam, and how it’s like um…life.
I’m thinking about writing a story about a neurotic man who is obsessed with scratching his own dandruff off his head. It’ll fall like snow in a snow globe, or something. This might be one of those baaaad ideas.