Some of my fiction even has dragons in it. But for some reason, the moderators let me stay with my transitory inferior prose.
No great literature has dragons in it.
Especially nothing written in Old English.
Some of my fiction even has dragons in it. But for some reason, the moderators let me stay with my transitory inferior prose.
No great literature has dragons in it.
Especially nothing written in Old English.
I never had that phase. I'm happy to be degrading literature with my writing. I burn thesauruses, use small words and don't mind exclamation marks. I cut up classics to make found poems. I embrace my role as a blight on the literary landscape, along with every other author who ever existed.
With acceptance comes tranquillity.
I never had that phase. I'm happy to be degrading literature with my writing. I burn thesauruses, use small words and don't mind exclamation marks. I cut up classics to make found poems. I embrace my role as a blight on the literary landscape, along with every other author who ever existed.
With acceptance comes tranquillity.
I think I've got a crush on you, now...
I count the nights, the sistrum sounds . . .
Death, thy victory,
Death, thy victory . . .
The rubber plant is free.
From the heart of dawn
Thou sinister albatross.
(The rubber plant is free . . . .)
Death thy victory.
And the linden trees quiver,
I count the nights, the sistrum sounds,
The hoopoe awaits me,
And the linden trees quiver.
And they say literature is dead....
Hah! I say. Hah!
A seventh annihilation sings in the glowing raven.
Hesitantly, the annihilation dissolves.
The raven runs toward a glowing key.
Infinite penalties ascend in the glowing waste.
Gradually in revelation, the penalties follow.
The waste evolves at the end of a sad raven.
A divine morning of creation evolves while laying waste to the hungry clay.
Gradually, the morning of creation waits.
The clay waits at the tip of a great ruby.
A hungry bird of time dissolves on top of the glowing existence.
Suddenly, the bird of time vanishes.
The existence dissolves while shattering a shining paradise.
There is a Thing I'm seeing here, and that I've seen off-line as well, with great frequency.
Someone wants to appear all Erudite and Cool and shit like that.
So they post something about "Literature/the book/poetry" is dead, expecting to receive accolades.
Because, you know, they've like read The Scarlet Letter, and Gatsby, and Ulysses and War and Peace so they think that they're far from the madding crowd, at the top of Foucault's pendulum, and know how to find gravity's rainbow. They see themselves as the ambassadors to literature's golden bowl.
Instead, they're stuck crying in lot 49, clutching the professor and thinking no one but them has ever understood Emma.
I only wish I still had the short story fragment I wrote in high school in the style of Finnegans Wake...
There's a Perl cgi that does that; it was called, I think "word salad," but I'm not finding it.
I totally want to use that in my .sig.
I only wish I still had the short story fragment I wrote in high school in the style of Finnegans Wake...
This disconnect has produced several reactionary movements in culture. Personally, I think that postmodernism is one way literature fights against this alleged degradation, by running with it instead of rejecting it.
That is not to say that life was easier, but that more thought went into it, from the way we dined to the way we listened to music.
This happens in my classes ALL THE TIME.
Stick a fork in it, it's done.
Why aren't you scooting your butt along the carpet like a dog with tape on it's bunghole
Isn't it easier to dogpile
(/end sarcasm)