A poem.

The Stygian Glare

A message of endings, written in retinal scar ink

The painlove is Crystallized

obscurity, obtuse acuity.

Digging its hole through time, it burns

The Antioch flame

Darkness rises in her cage of souls

In the distance, a dove dove

Columbidae weaves her wreath of sorrows

Pregnant upon the brow of the world

Creation! The doe ignores the incipient step of the birth-slick fawn

Mankind is darkest before the dawn.

Quote the craven. Minotaur

Eight minutes for light to pass from Sun to son

You have 8 minutes

Tits.

Twinkle. Twinkle. Silence.

Barnabe Googe

The Zodyake of Life (1560)

How does this obscure scrap of literature make you feel? Did it move you? Change you? What was the poet trying to say here? What is the meaning behind the meaning?

I’ll tell you a secret. This poem was not actually written by pastoral english poet Barnabe Googe. It was written by me. Surprising, I know. I don’t usually “write” “poetry”. Here’s why. Poetry….is dumb. It’s complete bullshit. I wrote this crappy ass poem in approximately 6.2 seconds, and then I asked Mistress to read it and tell me her thoughts. I failed to mention that I was the author.

Poor girl. She had no idea I was setting her up. Her critique: “I like it. It’s very smart. It evokes…death? I don’t know, it feels very dark, but I like it.”

Oh how I laughed. “You stupid woman,” I crowed, victorious, “that’s not what it means at all! Now get your sweet clam into the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”

I’m fully qualified to interpret the poem. I know exactly what it means. I wrote it after all. The truth is, it means NOTHING. It’s total crap. We can break it down line by line if you want. And begin.

The Stygian Glare– Even the name is meaningless grundle-dust. I assumed the average reader wouldn’t know what stygian means (it means very dark), and that if they did know what it means they would think “oh, I see what you did there. A dark glare ehh. Very sneaky. Very clever.” No. No, it is not clever. It’s nonsense.

A message of endings, written in retinal scar ink

The painlove is Crystallized

obscurity, obtuse acuity. – My my my, how evocative. What imagery. Retinal scar ink? The Stygian glare burnt so brightly it did organic damage? Intense. And painlove? Of course! Pain and Love are intrinsically tied. How perceptive. Crystallized obscurity? Obtuse acuity? Delightfully oxymoronic!

Sigh…more like just moronic. None of these words mean anything. They are a random, nonsensical mess.

Digging its hole through time, it burns

The Antioch flame– More nonsense. Just something for people to wonder about.

Darkness rises in her cage of souls– Ooh, im shivering inside my glass case of emotion!

In the distance, a dove dove– Duv dove. I actually like that. Because it’s so dumb.

Columbidae weaves her wreath of sorrows– Who is Columbidae? Actually, just the scientific name for doves. Not a person at all.

Pregnant upon the brow of the world

Creation! The doe ignores the incipient step of the birth-slick fawn– Hyphenating things makes them more dramatic. It’s science.

Mankind is darkest before the dawn.– It wouldn’t be good poetry without bastardizing at least one mindless idiom.

Quote the craven. Minotaur– Thanks Eddy Allen Poe

Eight minutes for light to pass from Sun to son

You have 8 minutes– For what? Until what? huh?

Tits.– I was thinking about tits here.

Twinkle. Twinkle. Silence.– Still thinking about tits.

The thing about poems is, they’re crap. Helen Keller grunting at a tree tranfers more useful information than most poetry. Oh, but the form and the rhythm, the iambic pentamatrices! Blah blah blah blah. The first and only rule of poetry should be RHYME. If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t worth my time. I don’t want to read a random ass collection of poorly punctuated words. I want some Doctor-mother-fucking-Seuss. At least he admitted that 3/4 of the crap he wrote made no sense whatsoever. But Maximus, poetry is all about conveying emotion! Here’s some emotion for you. “I’m angry.” “I’m sad.” “I’m horny.” “I’m sleepy.” Bam. Emotion conveyed. If poets have such important things to say, why don’t they just say them? Go ahead, lay out your deep and meaningful philosophies using clear, concise, grammatically coherent language. I don’t want to have to “interpret” what you’re trying to say. Don’t try to be artsy. Don’t try to be clever. There’s no need to be baroque. Just say what you mean. Express yourself using good sentence structure. Oh, you can’t? Because you have nothing worthwhile to say? I see. How disappointing. And readers, come on. If Jackson Pollock duct-taped his shit logs all over a piece of canvass, and signed it with his smeary poop hands, people would call it abstract expressionism, and buy it for one million billion dollars. Does that make it art? No, it makes it a steaming pile of doo that some idiot paid a million billion dollars for.

The same goes for poetry.

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About Max T Kramer

Max has been better than you at writing since the third grade. He currently lives in Connecticut, but will someday return to the desert.
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