The real problem here is I have acres and acres of written material I need to sort out, and quite a lot of it is poetry. I'm figuring if I publish a poem a day, perhaps I will eventually catch up with my own productivity. And as the name of the blog suggests, by no means be under the impression that any of this will be beautiful and sublime. I am a specialist in very cheeky humor and poetry. As a matter of fact, I am at my most vicious as a poet, although I have my sublime moments. Poetry is therapy.
Let's see. Let's begin with a poem about some fickle hipsters I knew who dropped me like a bag of dog turds when I stopped being cool. Namely, whenever life actually happened and I had emotions about it.
BLIND HIPSTER FENCE
My comment's deleted: persona not wanted;
worship yourself, and take kindness for granted.
Once I was cool, then was touched by the tragic,
suffering through, without practicing magic.
Friends become fifty then twenty then one,
when fair weather broke and I just wasn't fun.
You floated back in, but the damage was done.
I remembered like a cynical soul-damaged son.
In freaktown you are a shabby chic star,
a base mediocrity with a guitar.
I knew I'd eventually go home to the South.
In Nashville, we spit the lukewarm from our mouth.
I might seem like a jerk, when put to the test,
but you'll admit I was doing what Nashville does best.
Scenesters and hipsters, drug addled vectors,
self-immolated from middle class sectors,
don't be surprised that I figured you out
as quick and as hard as a Music Row scout.
So pardon me while I do not give a fuck,
most humans are selfish, and jerks, and they suck,
But even they know to be kind out of sense,
while you sit and drink coffee
on Blind Hipster Fence.
---
There, entry one. That should do for a creative beginning.
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