Tuesday poem: How I hate you

September 10, 2018

How I hate you

Reality TV, bastard child of documentary and soap opera,
I hate you more than competitors hate the dishes served
up by the other teams; their yucks and carefully edited
smirks are nothing to the pure flame of hate I direct at you.

I will buy one of those little devices to make crème brûlée.
Nay, I shall buy twelve of them, and hang them from
a bandolier, all Sergio Leone, only French.
And I shall discover the producers and brûlée them, irrevocably.

Custard hearted slop buckets are those who reduce
something like food to these fiendish competitions,
and pit like infamous olives the spitting couples.

Let there be an end to these spectacles!
I open a can of baked beans.
I heat bread.

PS Cottier

ukobach

After lengthy delay, here’s a very slow-cooked poem. Enjoy!

There are five poets in my garden

— and they think that they are bulbs.
But the first one smells carcinogenic,
and he is clothed in ancient brown,
as if he stole the mud-flecked jumper
from the very body of a bog-man.
The second is talking about
the fervid dangers of Pokémon,
and how in her day, they looked
for birds, and birds were quite enough.
She has a collection of empty eggs,
pilfered in her day, which lie
in an ancient purloined nest —
a weird eunuch’s severed balls,
placed in a stolen cup of misery.
Number three is being thoughtful.
He never utters a sentence without
a French theorist’s name —
like a pigeon (of stolen eggs) he says
Bourdieu, Bourdieu, and oui, he bores me.
Number four is addicted to rhyme.
He knows he is somewhat out of time,
but like a tune you know too well,
he is married to the villanelle.
And the fifth? She plants sarcasm
in a weedy succulent garden,
where such thin green tongues
poke like wee prickly dragons.
She’s fully awesome, and awfully sweet.

P.S. Cottier

picnic

I’ve been thinking too much this week about how any field of endeavour contains exactly the same percentage of unpleasant people as all the others.  Whether it be poetry or painting, rugby or beekeeping, there will be the same proportion of selfish people and the likeable. Perhaps politics is a genuine exception, and contains more of the unlikeable, but generally speaking, anywhere there are people there will be all the character types, regardless of whether it is a profession where a certain amount of empathy might be expected.

Indeed, the type of poet who bangs on about his sensitivity to nature (in the sense of a convenient green strip outside his window, sans history) often seems to lean towards the arsehole side of the equation.  If equations really have sides.  Or arseholes.

Discuss.

He wouldn’t know a poem…

…if it had a business card that said A. Poem
(‘read me and weep’) which it presented to him
while waving a bright purple beret under his nose
(which organ is unable to detect the whiff of poesy)
while reciting itself, excitedly or coolly,
while pouring itself a sixth large glass of wine
(which would be hard, because of clutched beret and card case,
except that it would first return the beret to its poeting head,
at such an interesting angle, and would put the card case back
in a voluminous tote bag, full of its brother and sister poems
gathered into slim books which are now remaindered)
while squatting and shitting lines of the purest gold.
He just wouldn’t know it,
for what it seems to be.

P.S. Cottier

furtive beret

Talk to the beret

Now I could have the heading ‘nasty little poem’ for that but I’ve become a tad bored with that self-generated meme.

***

I’m been working on a little manuscript of fantasy poems at the moment; more about that anon. Speaking of that type of thing, there’s a nice competition on at the moment, run by the Science Fiction Poetry Association in the US, for poems of all lengths written in a speculative genre (fantasy, horror, science fiction etc.).   If you write such things, why not have a go?  It is only $2 (that’s the ‘somewhat more valuable than the Australian $ at the moment, but we’ll see after their election, American $’) to enter.  You don’t have to be a member of the SFPA to enter (I am a member), and it would be lovely to have more Antipodean entries.

It closes at the end of the month, and entries can be lodged on-line.

Loud man pissing round the reading
with irrelevant comments,
dribbling self, reflected in a deep pool
of his own stewed past, steaming.
He is a true Narcissus,
but not so drop-dead gorgeous;
fungus mated with dead cat.
He smells of yesterday and loss.
He shouts his irrelevance
with every tedious joke,
every punch line a squib,
tarnishing the grey sky.

P.S. Cottier

Narcissus-Caravaggio_(1594-96)_edited.jpg

Not the subject of the poem

A nasty wee poem indeed, based on a couple of True Incidents.

***
On a couple of more positive notes, I’ll be reading a poem or two at Tuesday night’s launch of Suddenly Curving Space Time and meeting Gerald Keaney, one of the editors for the first time.  That’s at Smith’s Alternative (aka Smith’s non-Euclidean?), Alinga Street, Civic, at 5pm.  There is a bar.  I’m not sure if Hal Judge, the other editor, is in the country at the moment, but I will certainly find out.

UPDATE:  This launch has been postponed as Gerald is stuck in Brisbane due to ‘freak weather conditions’.  I think that means fog! I’ll give new details when I can.

FURTHER UPDATE: The rescheduled time of the Canberra Launch of the Suddenly Curving Space Time anthology of experimental poetry is 9.30pm – 11.30 pm on Thursday 21st July.

anthology covers

Secondly, the usually totally impeccable Kaaron Warren has inexplicably featured me as a guest blogger, chatting about how I refresh my wells.  That is what they call a metaphor, I believe.  Kaaron is seemingly aiming for a Guinness world record in having quite a few people write on this topic.  Seriously, there will be enough material for a Real Book based on these jottings, some of which are very informative and detailed. Some of the contributions One of the contributions is, however, a tad frivolous and involves violence towards naiads.

Walking out of the bar
(Seventh in a long series of nasty little poems)

There is a place that humour goes to die
like superannuated elephants.
The three part joke:
first this
than that
then punchline.
No final mild tingle
can ever atone
for the violence done to the ear
the appalling cringe of taking time
and parking a huge lump of
premeditation there.
People, mostly men,
dump these jokes like turds
to mark the boundaries of thought.
This is a funny! It moves like a funny!
So it must be funny!

You never shed boredom, m’dear.
You just packed it into a new shape;
a triangle of sludge, which you call
a joke. There is no jazz
to such a thing; no quip.
You play your lardy triangle
with a tardy limping tongue.
I listen for inadvertent puns,
or simply walk away.
Far better rude than bored,
says the woman in the beret,
unbearably self assured.
She’s walking out of the bar.

P.S. Cottier

bigstock-Sad-Theater-Mask--Arts-enter-7956480

Over at Project 365 + 1, I just posted a poem about the gym which I like quite a lot.  It has the optimistic name ‘Four times a week’.  Aspirational, one might say.  This was poem number twenty for that project, so I will do another ten days.  It makes the gym seem easy, I must say.