Saturday, August 15, 2015

Skinpy Bob in Kilkenny

TEMPORARY DRAFT FORM OF EXPERIMENTAL SPECULATIVE DISCOURSE. GONE IN THIRTY SEVEN MINUTES FROM FIRST PUBLISHING AND REPLACED AS A LINK TO A KOOL AID BLOG SOMEPLACE OIM NAE AT LIBERTY TO DISCUSS OUTSIDE THE CENTRAL MENTAL HOSPITAL WHERE I AM A BOSS HEAD DOCTOR OF A LORRA LOONIES THAT DO NOT STOP AND THINK ON AND LISTEN TO OUR INNER SPECIAL PSYCHIATRISTS VOICE THAT COMES FROM THE ANGELS ALL ROUND YE MAKING SURE YOUR WRITINGS WOWSA YOWSA CORE PHWOAR WOW N YEAH. READER PASS BY. MOVE ON.

God, he is so close as well. Robert Pinsky. Like you could just reach, and, stand up, maybe, then take summat from a scuffed Lidl plassy bag, like Sir Ian McMillan used to lug about before he became ennobled from Her Majesty. Wave it about to get Bob's attention, cry out, autograph, autograph, giv us ye fekin autograph, Bob, ye talented weirdo.

. i was thinking of being there myself, to apologize for being a dickhead at his online poetry class, once, several years ago now, when my poetic identity was still a seething cauldron of working-class chips, envy and resentment. Before i became the person i am today, proudly representing the very best of both Britain and Ireland.

 
Then i was a rag-bag of imitative stylistic ticks trying to learn by the act of continually practising extemporized voices, with all and any comers, willing to artistically engage and critically create conversational prose events live online. Walk on air against one's better judgement, and the prevailing orthodoxy prevalent in the inherently submissive publication model in which a 'permission to continue' writing poetry is sought, not in affirmations that yield forth from within our own inner well of Segais, but from without. Our literary worth measured not by the gift of the poem itself, but from its acceptance by editorial fixtures and forces of poetic consciousness firmly rooted in the old Tudor courtier-poet model, in which we are all steeped as rhymers journeying thru the thickets of the English language.

Bob, forgive me, i wud say; but i wuz only a third and fourth grade bardic Dos and Cano, a student with years to yet go and whelp and noddy lidl kewdy dawg, with no wise judgement to speak of; n' i went in there to your online forum sounding a right uneducated thug, shallow, crowing about myself, shouting how great i am, and all along, Bobo tha mawn yu wuz tha worn, outta all the titans i exposed as shallow vacuous a-holes during my time as the village's leading online poetry assassin, that proved to moi ye wuz nae tha divvy disinterested in fíliocht that i'd cast ye as wen projecting one's bitterness and psychological unwellnes, right at ye, dudemanbrosis.

Bob, i'd say, bending close in to whisper, watching the faces of the displeased Irish poatz fuming as i stepped out and up onto the bardic air between earth and sky, paying no heed to petty local social etiquettes and death stares directed at ye for not knowing ye place. And, being totally different, look, look, look, i know, i know, i'd say to Bob; i kno tha bug mawn's gan sho ee az, Bobertocelli, n oim tha repelasemento toorallah doorallah, why aye look oo it isn't Bobaldo, yu kewdy lidl noddy Bawb.

Ye dud haff tae torn aff ye comments, sho ye dud, kozza wozza norolorrah yeh yeh yeh, sung in the city of Norsemen so witty, where all ye cudnt take the presh fram a Leburtaze lout loik moi, ye cnuts.

BLFSN - AOUEI - Kilkenny poatz kno ye twade shing worreva es wull mayd, learn ye ogham, spin the scales, eighty-eighty different strands and brands of reverse engineered letters, there is, in the shade of a famous wan host and swirling ghostly now channels are opened and imbhas is flowing, the soul sung slant and true is spinning up and down, with two interlocked electro-emotional magnetic writing gyres in a system the science of consciousness cracked, by a long-term study and scientific analysis of the craic. So tha wuz.

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