A few months ago I accidentally wrote a limerick. And when I say accidentally I don't mean I fell on my keyboard, I mean I opened my mouth and puked up a complete limerick which (apparently) my subconscious had written without my knowledge.
For a writer, when your subconscious writes an ENTIRE POEM (and this one was pretty clever, if I do say do myself,) that is basically the climactic moment of artistic achievement; a creative orgasm if you will. That poem went like this:
-An Ode to Bad Poetry-
So many poetic monstrosities
Stop the linguistic atrocities
The rhyming is bad
The metaphors sad
They lead me to growing ferocity
My point is that I fell in love with the limerick form, because it's not only simple, it's VERY easy (at least, it is after a few months of practice. So the new limerick, the one that actually counts as today's posting, is one I wrote while walking from the Vancouver Library to the Skytrain (actually I was halfway there when I had to stop and write it so I wouldn't forget.) Anyway.
There once was a man set on fire
To water him was my desire
I searched for a bucket
Found none and said "fuck it"
'Twas sad when he burned like a pyre
Gruesome, I know. But sometimes my mind just takes over and I have no responsibility (at least that's what I keep telling myself... and everyone else)
No comments:
Post a Comment