1.
Duh, I luh yuh
we could have a baby
name her Duhiluhyuh
call her Duh for short
sing to her: duh-duh-duh
my my my
Duhiluhyuh
little duh
be the product of our love
Duh, the foregone conclusion
2.
Boo
Duh
Bah
Aaack
Shoot
Balls
Crap
Crud
Dang
3.
Duh - Morgan
Bitches be buggin'
scatter and collect
the powers that be
could be in you and me
4.
coupla fools abreast
where to cut? coup la
slap your wrists togeths--
like rubbing on the stink sauce
parfum de sauce
smell like special sauce
all day eau de toilet
eau de Cologne--that smelly spot
a francais--sil te plait
kiddo, you can tutoyer me
you can you me
please do you me
you-me. Duh.
Duh. I luh yuh.
Duhiluhyuh, Dear.
Duhiluhyuhs--All yuhs kids
(dickheads all)
Duhs upon duhs.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Twaddey-Winks
I have not been writing poetry lately. I haven't really been writing anything lately. Today I decided to give myself a little exercise to see if I could do it. Choose 5 words from the SF Gaurdian and write a 5 line poem using them. The poem quickly took on a maritime theme. I think I passed my test but the problem was that afterward I still didn't want to write poems, okay, that's not entirely true. I did want to continue dicking around or more positively, playing with words but I came up against that infernal useless feeling: so what? What good does rearranging words into silly combos do? What am I doing besides amusing myself with twaddle? I am not here to play tiddly-winks, damnit! I am not Gustave Flaubert. I will not sit around describing things beautifully without a nod to their socio-political or emotional significance! I am here to...and then I was distracted by something. So, the conclusion I reached, that I always reach when I feel like I will never write again is that I need to keep reading and brewing and waiting because clearly my desire to write or rather my need to expel collected and compacted information has not yet surpassed my crappy attitude. All in good time. In the meantime, here is some twaddle:
5 Words: smutty, esplanade, bubbles or bivalves, bottom, busk
Smutty-bottomed bivalves
languish along the esplanade
blowing hock bubbles (for kicks)
their tubal-libations cooking
busk in their gullets for passersby
Locally-owned hookers work weapons
in their mouth parts
those slutty prostitutes accomodate
acquisition accessories
for the ol' ball n' chain
studs and bawbles balanchine-style
5 Words: smutty, esplanade, bubbles or bivalves, bottom, busk
Smutty-bottomed bivalves
languish along the esplanade
blowing hock bubbles (for kicks)
their tubal-libations cooking
busk in their gullets for passersby
Locally-owned hookers work weapons
in their mouth parts
those slutty prostitutes accomodate
acquisition accessories
for the ol' ball n' chain
studs and bawbles balanchine-style
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Oh, Dear
OR "Gustave, why won't you just get a job!"
Flaubert to His Mother
-Between Minia and Assiut
23 February 1850
...Now I come to something that you seem to enjoy reverting to and that I fail to completely understand. You are never at a loss for things to torment yourself about. What is the sense of this: that I must have a job--'a small job,' you say. First of all, what job? I defy you to find me one, to specify in what field, what it would consist in. Frankly, and without deluding yourself, is there a single one that I am capable of filling? You add: 'One that wouldn't take up much of your time and wouldn't prevent you from doing other things.' There's the delusion! That's what Bouilhet told himself when he took up medicine, what I told myself when I began law, which only just failed to kill me with bottled-up fury. When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard esistences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds--like those horses that are equally good for saddle and carriage, the worst kind, that can neither jump a ditch nor pull a plow.
In short, it seems to me that one takes a job for money, for honors, or as an escape from idleness. Now you'll grant me, darling, (1) that I keep busy enough not to have to go out looking for something to do; and (2) if it's a question of honors, my vanity is such that I'm incapable of feeling myself honored by anything: a position, however high it might be (and that isn't the kind you speak of) will never give me the satisfaction that I derive from my self-respect when I have accomplished something well in my own way, and finally, if it's for money, any jobs or job that I could have would bring in too little to make much difference to my income. Weigh all those considerations: don't knock your head against a hollow idea. Is there any position in which I'd be closer to you, more yours? And isn't not to be bored one of the principal goals of life?
*From "Flaubert in Egypt"
Flaubert to His Mother
-Between Minia and Assiut
23 February 1850
...Now I come to something that you seem to enjoy reverting to and that I fail to completely understand. You are never at a loss for things to torment yourself about. What is the sense of this: that I must have a job--'a small job,' you say. First of all, what job? I defy you to find me one, to specify in what field, what it would consist in. Frankly, and without deluding yourself, is there a single one that I am capable of filling? You add: 'One that wouldn't take up much of your time and wouldn't prevent you from doing other things.' There's the delusion! That's what Bouilhet told himself when he took up medicine, what I told myself when I began law, which only just failed to kill me with bottled-up fury. When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard esistences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds--like those horses that are equally good for saddle and carriage, the worst kind, that can neither jump a ditch nor pull a plow.
In short, it seems to me that one takes a job for money, for honors, or as an escape from idleness. Now you'll grant me, darling, (1) that I keep busy enough not to have to go out looking for something to do; and (2) if it's a question of honors, my vanity is such that I'm incapable of feeling myself honored by anything: a position, however high it might be (and that isn't the kind you speak of) will never give me the satisfaction that I derive from my self-respect when I have accomplished something well in my own way, and finally, if it's for money, any jobs or job that I could have would bring in too little to make much difference to my income. Weigh all those considerations: don't knock your head against a hollow idea. Is there any position in which I'd be closer to you, more yours? And isn't not to be bored one of the principal goals of life?
*From "Flaubert in Egypt"
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Sherlock Holmes
And now Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich, and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums. (...)
"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so."
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," he remarked. "L'homme c'est rien--l'oevre c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sand."
-- 2 from Adventure II. The Red-Headed League
"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so."
"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," he remarked. "L'homme c'est rien--l'oevre c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sand."
-- 2 from Adventure II. The Red-Headed League
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