Larry, I like your poem, says a lot with spare use of sharp words. Following is a worse attempt at poetry?
Homage to P.C. Crusaders
Call me colored-American, I hit you with H. Rap Brown pan! Do you think you're Elie Kazan just because you eat marzipan & wear sweaters cardigan? Barefoot, I ran from the Klan, slept beneath Ohio River span, jumped aboard Steamer Stan. (Ah) I never get a scuba tan, the re-po man took family van. O Christ, green shit hit fan, & I need a Marshall Law Plan!
hey chuck, long time no hear. enjoyed your poem--i think it's yours--though didn't get some. like a dylan song, it didn't matter. well, just that quick comment for now, as consumed with the usual symptoms of rage and hatred when i get a particularly bad case of englishitis. burning a high fever, mainly through the eyes. cheers, man--coming to america to visit soon, i do really wish it was permanent. like my year and a half working in a very rough philadelphia shelter, i feel no one understands me, from my more and more buried past or my surreal out of touch present. sorry for irrelevant aside, just my mood. cheers again
Larry: I am moody, and when Larry: Stupid things happen to me a lot, I get emotional, and spout off like an old whale. I find this comes with age.
It's shaky to impose what works for me but this is what I MENTALLY do. I take-on life's bouts like Muhammad Ali did with younger boxer, George Foreman, and used a Rope-a-Dope strategy.
For example, as assholes, shit jobs, ignorance, rent, insults, bizarre thing that I do, family, broken vehicles, Bosses, illnesses, farts, etcetera, keep relentlessly coming at me, I try and "Rope-a-Dope" them until they get tired, move on, and I'm still standing.
A person can never win such perpetual battles except in one's INTERIOR, and that's how "Rope-a-Dope" coping actually works for me. Come to think of it, Harry Bellefonte also had a name for coping, he called it "growing thick skin."
I really liked your little poem, "fucking & killing... fireman up skirt." Made me think of the firemen and dilemmas in "Fahrenheit 451."
The madness is all over, & I can relate to your "Englishitis." (Very cool way to put that, Larry!) For the record, I am afflicted with Stage 3 Scrantonarcotism, and not to be excessively discouraging, but what's left of the U.S. working class are being snookered & are on run, much like Plains Indians.
hey chuck, thanks very much, nice of you and good advice. my poem was literally without thought, straight to the keyboard. but those to me are often the best, because they're not contrived. not that i write any. once, though, my wife and i were living in denver, third floor single room, and one night i bought one of those huge jugs of rossi i think red wine, and we did a back and forth across my high table, writing joint what we called haikus--they were three lines, anyway, on little pieces of paper, then folded them into airplanes and sent them out the window. we littered the lawn below, and watch passersby, few of whom took any notice. but i just couldn't leave them, went down and collected them and still have them i think. but they were pretty good! to your remedy, the rope a dope. good advice. i still let people get to me--i've had various issues with being thick skinned, as in, i have been, then re examined it a bit and found i didn't want to be that way, though of course you must be at least at times to survive. for me (and this is how i yet again got in trouble with wife yesterday), i'm a huge smartass. so, we see a kid we know in the park, and i put on a sort of south philly italian over the top accent, very loud--this shit doesn't fly in england! my wife gets bent out of shape and insulting. perhaps you can see the trajectory. but i do it in the first place because i'm generally appalled by the english. so, if they're going to be hateful, especially when they catch whiff of an american accent, then (see linh's photo of today) Keep Calm and Bring It! one last comment on little poem. one of my standard smartass pieces since 2001 has been, in variations, that firemen are my biggest heroes. no one seems to get it, granted i don't make much effort to explain as it kills it for me. cheers again, chuck
6 comments:
war war war war
fucking and killing
fucking and killing
robocop robocop
fireman
upskirt
pantyshot
robo barbi
(not attempting poetry, just a spontaneous chant, cheers)
Larry, I like your poem, says a lot with spare use of sharp words. Following is a worse attempt at poetry?
Homage to P.C. Crusaders
Call me colored-American,
I hit you with H. Rap Brown pan!
Do you think you're Elie Kazan
just because you eat marzipan
& wear sweaters cardigan?
Barefoot, I ran from the Klan,
slept beneath Ohio River span,
jumped aboard Steamer Stan.
(Ah) I never get a scuba tan,
the re-po man took family van.
O Christ, green shit hit fan,
& I need a Marshall Law Plan!
hey chuck,
long time no hear.
enjoyed your poem--i think it's yours--though didn't get some. like a dylan song, it didn't matter.
well, just that quick comment for now, as consumed with the usual symptoms of rage and hatred when i get a particularly bad case of englishitis. burning a high fever, mainly through the eyes.
cheers, man--coming to america to visit soon, i do really wish it was permanent. like my year and a half working in a very rough philadelphia shelter, i feel no one understands me, from my more and more buried past or my surreal out of touch present. sorry for irrelevant aside, just my mood. cheers again
Larry: I am moody, and when Larry: Stupid things happen to me a lot, I get emotional, and spout off like an old whale. I find this comes with age.
It's shaky to impose what works for me but this is what I MENTALLY do. I take-on life's bouts like Muhammad Ali did with younger boxer, George Foreman, and used a Rope-a-Dope strategy.
For example, as assholes, shit jobs, ignorance, rent, insults, bizarre thing that I do, family, broken vehicles, Bosses, illnesses, farts, etcetera, keep relentlessly coming at me, I try and "Rope-a-Dope" them until they get tired, move on, and I'm still standing.
A person can never win such perpetual battles except in one's INTERIOR, and that's how "Rope-a-Dope" coping actually works for me. Come to think of it, Harry Bellefonte also had a name for coping, he called it "growing thick skin."
I really liked your little poem, "fucking & killing... fireman up skirt." Made me think of the firemen and dilemmas in "Fahrenheit 451."
The madness is all over, & I can relate to your "Englishitis." (Very cool way to put that, Larry!) For the record, I am afflicted with Stage 3 Scrantonarcotism, and not to be excessively discouraging, but what's left of the U.S. working class are being snookered & are on run, much like Plains Indians.
Cheers.
hey chuck,
thanks very much, nice of you and good advice.
my poem was literally without thought, straight to the keyboard. but those to me are often the best, because they're not contrived. not that i write any.
once, though, my wife and i were living in denver, third floor single room, and one night i bought one of those huge jugs of rossi i think red wine, and we did a back and forth across my high table, writing joint what we called haikus--they were three lines, anyway, on little pieces of paper, then folded them into airplanes and sent them out the window. we littered the lawn below, and watch passersby, few of whom took any notice. but i just couldn't leave them, went down and collected them and still have them i think. but they were pretty good!
to your remedy, the rope a dope. good advice. i still let people get to me--i've had various issues with being thick skinned, as in, i have been, then re examined it a bit and found i didn't want to be that way, though of course you must be at least at times to survive.
for me (and this is how i yet again got in trouble with wife yesterday), i'm a huge smartass. so, we see a kid we know in the park, and i put on a sort of south philly italian over the top accent, very loud--this shit doesn't fly in england! my wife gets bent out of shape and insulting. perhaps you can see the trajectory. but i do it in the first place because i'm generally appalled by the english. so, if they're going to be hateful, especially when they catch whiff of an american accent, then (see linh's photo of today) Keep Calm and Bring It!
one last comment on little poem. one of my standard smartass pieces since 2001 has been, in variations, that firemen are my biggest heroes. no one seems to get it, granted i don't make much effort to explain as it kills it for me.
cheers again, chuck
ps a nice trick to link 'scrantonarcotism', the working class, snooker or being snookered, and the plains indians in one sentence!
this is quality
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