thank you mistress, may I please have another?

Follow-up: That was supposed to read "deaR god," but I guess "deaD god" works just as well. It's done with now. The machine hast spoken&$@#*!Absinthe: Centurion of The Mauve Army of Naked Chick Magazines.

smack

Dead god: Spare me from bad poetry. Good holy christ, no more bad poetry. I'll even become a better nonchristian! It's sent to me by well-intending people who want me to {shudder} critique it, I'm always being asked to come to readings that high schoolers put on... and then there's Robert Frost, for eff's sake. I don't know WHAT you were trying to do with Robert Frost. This isn't 100% bad poetry-- just most of it. *smirk* Ha! Obey the fist! I know-- I'm not a poet. I don't sit down and write poetry. It's never been my thing. However, I definitely read my share and think I can formulate a good idea of what works and what doesn't. A lot of these kids have poetential, but it needs to be further developed beyond "capitalism sucks, man!", angst, angst, angst, and how their parents won't let them cruise to Jack in the Box at 1am for e-coli burgers. Some of them DON'T have potential, and need to give up before the god of poetry smites them down. Heh! I want to smite people. I remember the last time I ended up at a bad poetry reading. The drug czar J and I went out afterward and got coffee at one of those tacky 24-hour places AND DREW ON THE PAPER PLACEMATS! That's the best. I didn't think I could actually eat anything on the menu, so I stuck to the coffee. After so long, my stomach can handle it. There's still something about those places that fascinate me like every other dysfunctional part of the all-american kultur experience. THIS is diner food. Cigarette ash on the formica, acrid coffee, cranky lesbian he-man of a waitress, questionable translucent orange residue on the dinner plate... the epitome of all that is wrong with foodstuffs. Ahh... the cheap all-American 24-hour diner. Teenage goths, alcoholic fathers, runaway convicts, truck drivers who try to rape my friends in the bathroom, rednecks who verbally assault us, drug users, farmers, bad poets... all in this horribly-concocted "pseudo-country-home" setting with single mothers on welfare dishing out the dead cows. Cows must equate the diner experience with hades. Or-- at the very least-- Jeffrey Dahmer's refrigerator. I wonder if it was a Westinghouse. Then we wrote our OWN bad poetry about it, in the style of everyone at the reading: "Oh, MAN these gaudy fake pine candleholders speak like a piece of my heart melted by ephemeral phantasmagoric spinning spirals lucid out of control the day is yesterday, non unlike that black velveteen oil painting of John Wayne over there in the corner. And I ask myself: why this obstructed social system? Why black patches of haze in the moonlight tear my vision? I am going to listen to Rage and eat some cheeseburgers now!"Fffffffffffff...... I need to leave.