poetry critical

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harvard fings

the romantic linger,  
massed in mass, their
weightless bodies strewn
line and linger so they
line and linger all damn
fuck and finger they wish
and wish away.
for they are harvard boys (and girls)
under harvard skies. flingering and
prep-school smirk, bright-eyed,
with their genitalia half-exposed.
their groomed facial hair gone
sticky, pastiche of fly
and web as the chorus of
innocence is drowned in
copious amounts of sperm,
and the end, THE END, dear
eleanor would shriek
for the day has dawned,
and the basement has all
but flooded.

27 May 09

Rated 9.5 (7.9) by 2 users.
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it's actually only a little like this now, and maybe a little more when i was there -- and, i couldn't really take it -- the middle-wealthy money thing ruins people unless they're really smart. most of the regular, middle class, kids weren't smart, in any creative way, and were ambitious and clever enough to do math and run for class president, and that just doesn't mean anything to me. they weren't reliable when things got intellectually difficult -- like, when you had to accept that you were nothing at all in the universe but a passive observer after all... a world with no perks for being 'clever'.

the preppy people -- meaning, let's say, kids from wealthy families, did play their own games with each other, on their own terms, and were most like street kids growing up without social responsibilities -- kids whose father didn't own something and have to keep under the radar because of the family name... owners of big companies in small towns... small world moguls were the low end, grandchildren of robber barons being the outer edge of born into, not 'privilege', since they're living under so much scrutiny and obligation, but something like the ability to not get stuck in, say, worrying about your neighbors -- you can buy a new place, anywhere. something like that. that level of ability to cope is only equaled by poor kids who don't have to live anywhere to be creative. the things you have in common with each other are immediate, and you don't need what they have to do in life to earn their keep, and you're grateful -- no 'father', no 'mother' -- these are not helpful people for creative people.

and that's the only real criteria for us as poets, i think. how free we are to do what we need to do so that we can express as directly and freely as we can. harvard had some good students and i had some real friends, but the faculty pretty much is going to either live through pretending to be upper class, and live through or on the preppy boys and girls, or else is so oppressed by it all that they're going to go someplace else. that's what you'd do too, as a student, if you were there and had to be free to be creative.

the one thing that it does offer, up front and more than not, is to look at the concept. i think this is because the profs really are good, on some level -- did have some independence once and simply trapped, and they take it out on you by showing you what a clone you are for staying there. the best undergraduate experience in boston is in schools staffed by profs who didn't stay at harvard beyond teaching assistant -- who moved on to happier places and are still bright and young enough to want to teach.

sorry to go on, but this poem brought so much to mind, and i feel that you think that the experience is some kind of private club, and it really isn't totally that. there are some very sweet and intelligent people in cambridge, ma, and it's only you there anyway -- i mean, you're defining yourself with people capable of defining themselves. that's not what you'd find at a big state university in the u.s. -- like berkeley, where they're automatically upper class or a money-earner or a right-thinking intellectual just because of the place you go to school.

sorry this comment is so fucked -- the poem slides into saying and works on that level. it's just that i don't know what you're talking about.
 — trashpoodle

Reader's Digest expose on "mee say stuff"
 — unknown

quite true! but, it was new material for you and that's its justification. and, the poem is strange, don't you think, and needs talking about.
 — trashpoodle

Considering I have read plenty of this person's postings, no: this is not new material at all; it is the same old same old.
 — unknown

oh, dry up. you think it's about attitude and your perfumed aura and i think it's about turning language out of the banality of the way people like you talk and allowing it in a poem to invent new minds. what have you got to offer?? a pointer to a new brand of beer? a 'feel sorry for me moment'? why would i need to? you can afford beer.
 — trashpoodle

What do I have to offer?? A differing opinion. Now, gracious me, who in the world would want that? I suppose I will leave you to it, then. Good day.
 — unknown

what do you consider an 'opinion'? because i think all you're saying is 'bot'. why should anyone here care that 'you've read before' when you're not constructing an argument on what you've read now? who would care? it's a rush limbaugh move, where all you have to do is act like a princess and raise your rush eyes and tweek your rush cigar ash. there's just nothing in your crit at all that seems intelligent -- 'pavlovian', maybe, but you're not pavlov either.

and, what about the poem? because at least i was commenting on the poem.
 — trashpoodle

What is a fing?  Not sure what that means.

I was into this until line 12.  Something changed there, the way the lines were focused, the beat of the poetic drum.  Flingering and fuckling?  That's rather too 'cute' for what seems to be a mature poem, in my opinion.  Pastiche of fly?  HAHAHA!  That's clever and a really disgusting image but hilarious!

The end is a good, solid finish.  
 — Isabelle5

when will this farce of poets stop writing for trashpod? what the fuck does the author know about harvard. more copypaste pretend - believe what I say.
just cause joey was always such an asshull when it came to writing it made you weaklings thnk he's an expert. I call it strong onion and u cant get the whiff out of your lungs, so now all looking for his approving stroke down the backside of their lame poetry.
 — unknown

Unknown, as long as the poets are having fun, learning something about writing, how can it be wrong?  No one is forcing them to make variations so there is no harm done.  I see your point some poets want to do this.  Let them!
 — Isabelle5

harvard things?
cobain and courtney in |5?
i also can see chuckle_s in there.

flingering and fuckling fings.
you got something really gooed
going on here, DL.

but a guy like me doesn't know
harvard, much less any f&f fingies

you're a fukked up romantic.
: )
 — fractalcore

this unknown of 'what does he know about...' must not like to comment on poetry, and he hasn't said anything about this poem itself.

meet me at grolier, and we'll talk about gordon.
 — trashpoodle

tee hee hee....... i liked this one and zero
is it going to win the grammy? or the emmy or the peace prize no
or the best of show no......
but its fun and you are a good write.
 — unknown

thinking about adding a (de)to the basement.

so yeah, unknown, i know zilch about harvard but who said this was about harvard?
it seems strange to me that you would think that it would be.

"same old, same old"-- maybe follows certain patterns of craft, but with L6 to 11 i thought i was breaking out something different, something lyrically lyrical. which, i guess, is a more straight-forward deliverance than i am use to. clean.

i think maybe this could be in three-parts. there's definetely more to be said, and i haven't even bothered to source off mike's original (or any of the others).

thanks for reading.
 — DeformedLion

i read this as 'fings' as baby-talk for 'things', as in whatever/young things, as in talking about a bloodbath of some estate wine, poured in a bathtub and who can remember nights. coupled with an exquisite facade of denial and duplicity as they get their way and smirk. i think that's "yale'.     :)
 — trashpoodle

fings as concatenated fingers which is the cool move of the 60's beatniks which waxes into a lyrical phrasing in fucklings and flingerings then it spirals into the voice of viscereality from 12 to 24 making it a joke that the end is where its at -- the last strophe taking the imagery to another layer of wet dream -- HEART-SHAPED BOXES is the emblem of the destiny of this poem
 — AlchemiA

i'm not going to pretend I understand this poem. I won't make any suggestions or give any compliments. I will ask to have it explained for a guy who isn't a Cambridge lefty and only went to Harvard to use the bathroom while I was in the city.

I just wish I understood this, especially after alchema's comment, how is heart shaped box an emblem of destiny? By all means feel free to make witty statements about my ignorance.
 — TCooks

thank god for her END the end is NIGH, with the sperm rolling where it may, from my experience there is no sperm  it runs down inside her to who knows where, finished still hard you lay back for a smoke, and watch her writhe with twists of joy... j.g.smiles
 — goeszon

LOVE it and I promise, no variations this time.  LOL!  It's got that intellectual (Harvard)/nasty kind of street mix to it; it's urban, studious and taboo all at the same time, which is why it works for me.  :-)
 — starr

p.s., Mike, I like the ending too.  :-)
 — starr

Ma bad.  All this time, I thought this was Mike's poem and it's YOURS, D.L.!  Forgive me!  It's still tight!  :-) "10."
 — starr

staah, that would be the basement to Tommy's Lunch, i think.
 — trashpoodle

Tommy's Lunch?  I don't remember that.  I DO remember Brookline Lunch though on Brookline Street in Central Square, Camb.  Maybe we're mixin' up our Squares?  Do you remember the College Deli on Mass. Ave.?  UnbeLIEVABLE blueberry muffins!  And D.L., my apologies again for not having identified the voice of this poem.  Sometimes, you write similarly to Mike.  :-)  
 — starr

'brookline lunch'... amazing. 'tommy's' was on mt. auburn street, just up from the square, towards central and next to cahaly's. tommy's had the best pinball machines in the square. then there was the 'tasty', diagonal from the coop, and, of course, back when, the hays-bickford cafeteria all night regular coffee bar and literary society. everyone ended up there, just because, and i met tranny's from roxbury and sitar players from waltham and beat poets from new york there in the wee hours. imagine a kind of high-IQ meat-rack where it was about cool instead of rigs, and how far you were towards your addiction break-even point.
 — trashpoodle

this is still an idiotic rant, and i hope you're laughing, DL about its popularity, and not head-banging cause you're surrounded by drooling idiots.

like me.
 — trashpoodle

your comment made me laugh.

just counting down the seconds till the righteous brothers band together and sink this back into oblivion
 — DeformedLion

do you think oneday i'll ever get into harvard?
 — DeformedLion

i'll sneak you in in a big packing crate of condoms i've got to drop off for adams house.
 — trashpoodle

this is my harvard poem
 — DeformedLion

dang, are all the recent poems yours?
i like fings.
 — mandolyn

great one
 — psychofemale