Billy Biff-Chin
on Ducks With AIDs (a feeble attempt of something different) by Blindpoetry
7 Feb 2004, 1:58 AM
Very good. -8-
Sorry about plagiarising your other poems. I was just messing around to piss you off.
This is a real improvement on your other poems.
I agree with the other poets here that it's better to write about new, unexpected things than about stale and tired old subjects.
It's better to write about something that will make everyone sit up and take notice.
The idea of licking an ashtray "to get satisfaction" is surprising and interesting.
The next lesson: learn to think beyond the obvious. I suggest you try to describe things in astonishingly accurate but unexpected ways.
But don't take these poems to school. Teachers won't like you writing about ducks with AIDS. That's because teachers are narrow-minded and unimaginative fools with little aptitude for appreciating originality.
That's a broad generalisation, but I remember how rubbish school can be.
awesome
oh shut up hippy
profound. And by profound I mean dull. DULL DULL DULL.
DIDACTIC
Work on rythm.
Did you get your username from an episode of Ant & Dec's "Wonky Donkey"?
Blindpoetry
replying on Ducks With AIDs (a feeble attempt of something different) by Blindpoetry
6 Feb 2004, 3:50 PM
done. :-)
Blindpoetry
on Ducks With AIDs (a feeble attempt of something different) by Blindpoetry
6 Feb 2004, 3:27 PM
oops I over-looked a typo.
"says" in the 28 days later part is really "days"
sorry.
great poem!
okay, back. To be more specific - I guess by conveying, sucessfully apparently, a sense of ennui, I believe it doesn't draw the reader in very much. Or perhaps too much; I end up, figuratively, as if it were a sepia photograph slipping from my fingers - and I simply step away from it.
What more do I want? I think I want a hook line, or an echoed sentiment, say - related to the first quotation (because that's quite lovely and poignant).
Well, this shit makes for real good fertilizer.
Well, this shit makes for real good fertilizer.
Dude -- bury them already. That's just sick.
You
Shouldn't
Oughtn't
Mightn't
Try
Because you
Can't.
So don't.
Cant. -0-
There is only one Goad.
At least, only one with a capital 'G'.
How dare you defecate all over this poor girl's poeme? Is it not enough that she has been mocked and shamed to the point of lunacy, so that her life's work now resembles little more than a pathetic smear on the toilet bowl of literature? And you... you with your linguistic subtleties and your arbitrarily small epsilons come swaggering in, jodhpurs flying at half-mast, coiling out absurdly bulging specimens all o'er the outhouse floor, like some sort of bizarre dung cannon, blasting what little remains of her awestruck dumplings into oblivion. No, yours are not the proudest buttocks in the land - far from it - yet you flaunt them menacingly, a shame unto their jodhpurs, goading all those that would dare take two sheets of paper instead of one into partially wiped submission. Begone from this town, foul stainmonger, ere the precious outhouse crumbles 'neath your wanton barrage.
Were you interrupted while writing this (prhaps by one of the eponymous high-jumps)? What you have is rather good in a fitter-happier sort of way, but it breaks off really, really abruptly and unsatisfyingly. So we dont necessarily read poetry to be satisfied, you say. Buncombe, I say. -8-