Hello again, masochistic readers. Greetings, new victims.
In case it wasn’t obvious, I have no idea what I’m doing. While some surety would be comforting, if I ever declare I know absolutely what I am doing, please take me behind the barn and turn me into bacon or hot wings, please.
I began writing poetry when prose gave me the middle finger. I wasn’t a particular connoisseur of poetry. Never read a whole book of poetry by anyone. But the words would come when I tried, and this soothed the terror of having no words. It was shit, but it was words and words meant I was writing and writing meant I was a writer. After a while of this I had a turdpile. I reached out to the only published poet I knew and asked her how she got published. She said she was never chosen, so she started her own publishing company. I was shocked.
Then she said to send her what I had and she’d see if they would be interested in publishing.
Holy shit.
The rest of the story is it became a collection of poetry.
In case it wasn’t obvious, I have an adversarial relationship with myself. I am a circus of doubt. I’m suspicious and paranoid. Cowardly. It used to be worse, so much worse, but the struggle continues. I’m comfortable enough now in my writing to say I’m better than the collection of turds in that book. I CAN WRITE BETTER TURDS NOW.
And now that I believe I’m an improved turdbuilder, this book haunts me. First books should be burned upon creation. But I failed to burn it and now it’s out there in the wild waiting in ambush to smear itself on the unwary. There’s also the problem of the internet, and my previous writing there. I can’t burn that, ever. Only the Sun can do that now, and it might because it’s at peak activity, but the odds are low.
I have doubts and concerns now about it being published. I want to take it off of Amazon. It’s not yet. But it’s not my intent to air the issue here. It’s too easy to be ungrateful. It’s too easy to be an asshole. I may write more about this in the future, but not now. Maybe never.
Remember, I know nothing. I have no education, no mentors, no editor, no colleagues. It’s just me flinging my shit. So, I’m going a different route. I’m going to use black magic on my black magic. I’m going to publish the book here on Substack, bit by bit, maybe do some edits and add some commentary to each turdladen poem.
Yep, that’s right, I’m going to show you the turds I don’t want you to see.
One of the reasons I’m doing this is that I’ve been pecking for awhile at an essay about pets specifically and animals in general. Add to this that I was recently house/petsitting for my sister and one of her cats went missing on my watch. It fucked me up. I’m still fucked up about it. My sister is heartbroken. Everything is shit. I don’t want to write about pets.
Synchronicity is cruel sometimes.
I’m also battling to survive financially. I have no job, no steady steam of income. I got turned down for a “general laborer” job! WTF. It’s all precarious improvisation now. Rent is due. I’m not sure what to do and so I don’t want to do anything. My brain is mush. (Don’t feel sorry. A lot of this is self-engineered.)
So this is what I have to offer for the time being. Enjoy the turds.
Yours in fraternal dissonance,
—C
Noose of the Muses
Quarterly unveilings of shiny new things Crowdsource strategies to crown the next king Digitally accelerated mnemonic breeding of Ponzied multilevel white noise thinking Script and schedule regular news briefings— A hydra of fireside chats to keep us scheming Oh, the purring, whirring So soothing, confidence boosting Lies! Lies that will not bear consequence’s weight Watch as our illusions evaporate Insidious, the name of this sadistic storyline For fighting the binds only tightens them In defeating our enemies, we become them Tearing out chapters rewrites them, Inspires more of the same vein No! Don’t take my word History’s colon is packed with it Despite an Everest of conquered foes draining out their lifeblood between our toes In spite of our god-blessed might, emancipations and conjured Rights Legions of our demons’ hearts still beat Ten fucking thousand years of rinse and repeat Sit and spin! The self-fellatio of the faithful Acting out the end days of Icarus and Babel Slays like Cain but claims it’s Abel Penned the Fall, paints the stain of sin Sprinkles it all with the spice of antichrists Defcons for the ripening armageddons Expectation’s reflection—annihilation baked right in Ho! This theme cruise was birthed to the reef A lifestyle preordained to the deep Farer’s fear and deckhand’s shame Officer Anger, the High Pope of Hope Captain Pride and his lovely bride, Blame All will surrender to grief Time for the lifeboats, dear dreamers Time to abandon S.S. Belief
BONUS ROUND
I found a “new to me” band. I like them. This song kinda has a highbrow porn soundtrack vibe but it’s classy, trippy, and soothing. And man, I need some soothing. Take a listen.
BONUS BONUS ROUND
I was told that “nalgoncito” is Mexican for “little big butt” and now it is my ancient alien indian name. Please address me as such.
BONUS BONUS BONUS ROUND
Comedian Dave Attell has a new special on Netflix. God bless him.
—FIN—
One of my Dungeon Masters posted this callback to the 80s show NIGHT FLIGHT. Pure poetry.
https://tonypowersmusic.com/music