Poetry really isn't my thing, folks. But I dig these Orson and Edna people. They're just so weird. And they have a really rich life inside my head. I know Edna a bit better than I know Orson, he can tend to be reduced to a stack of stereotypes. And poetry is where they should live. Truly. Like, what would have happened if Barryman had tried to put Henry or Mr. Bones into prose? Um, He probably wouldn't have been the poet laureate, or be renowned for insanity.
If I want to be noted for something after my death, or late in my life, I want that thing to be massive eccentricity, insanity or substance abuse. I think Orson and Edna are more-likely to get me there. But most of what ends up here in blogland will more-than-likely be prose.
Poems, for me, are easier to fit into my retardedly busy life, and I find that they're also easier to work on in very short clips of time. Like blogs. Hence this self-indulgent pile.
No comments:
Post a Comment