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Chicken

Was contemplating submitting a few poems to a local competition –

(four poems for £10.  Which one of my Creative Writing examples should I enter?  Which would win?  I read last year’s winner... well constructed, beautifully written, saccharine)

- hustle the cash and the glory, then skedaddle, giggling with irony, spouting limericks, in a futile attempt to shatter the preposterous bluster of it all.  Yes, sir, I do bite my thumb at you.

The kick-arse Bukowski side of me became belligerent, pointing out the bunk in all that, reminding me of my real poems, the ones that save me and keep me sane; blank anxious verse for a numb mind.  Existential doggerel.  That’s who I am.  That’s my voice.

I knew the end was nigh when I found myself singing to my therapist, as if demanding to be heard in that voice.  Bitter and nasty and desperate.  So, rather than the forced, limping iambic beat of a sonnet or a mangled haiku, I decided to make the schizoid choice.  Poetry comes from awe, sublimation and playing with madness.  The idea of a competition is absurd, paradoxical to the spirit in which poetry should be written.
CrookedMan CrookedMan 46-50 May 13, 2012

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