i just found this in the midst of sorting files... it was a poem I wrote for a Dada and Surrealism class. Actually, this isn't the poem, this is part of a paper I wrote to explain the poem. I ran out of things to say about the stupid poem so in the midst of some academic bullshitting, I started ranting about a midget and a goat... which has actually become a prevailing surrealist theme in my life. Even after all these years, I can still tell which parts are obviously contrived... I bet you can too. I don't know why I'm putting this up, I was just like "oh yeah! the midget and the goat! I remember that!". i think it's just an excuse to go on some rant about random order... so maybe you should skip the poem and go straight to the end part.
In more inopportune times, there would only be the goat to thank, but thankfully, it didn’t appear that sanity was bleeding. Horribly disfigured, perhaps, but in essence, I always presumed him to be anarchic in his depiction of the modern burlesque. For the more feeble-minded, an itinerary of degradation would be in order for the convalescence of dear Samson, whose little midget body has suffered the worst slings and arrows of insults. I never realized the extent of his pain- I was bleeding, after all. And it didn’t seem to matter that the clock was ticking backwards, or that the elevator failed to elevate me. Something was missing. It wouldn’t have occurred to me otherwise, but I happened to be sitting at the time. So I grabbed the little midget by the arms (not realizing that the limbs had become autonomous to what was left of the body). I shook it violently and I said “I renounce sanity! Madness is real! To be mad is to be natural!” It was more than she could bear, but I was compelled to do it. For my own part, I had none. Someone had already taken the ferris wheel to the rodeo, had already drawn the superfluous nipple on the Venus, had already bit and barked at the Pope while he drove away in his golf cart. All I could do was applaud the fact that it was funny.
... it occurs to me that I've always loved writing this way. all equisite corpsy-like and autonomation styles. It's why I love fridge poetry too. it's so nice not to have to make sense. Or to make sense in a really nonsensical way. All my fridge poetry makes perfect sense, it just makes it's point via a dizzyingly circuitous path. Here's my theory:
Fridge Poetry is like Vipassina Meditation.
and furthermore...
Vipassina Meditation is like having a box over your head. (stay with me, here). You are confined by a very specific and somewhat arbitrary set of rules; you have very finite limits and you learn to function within the confines of these limitations, this box. You learn to be happy with a little. So that, when you remove the box, you can truly appreciate the space around you, and use it to its fullest potential.
Fridge Poetry is the same- you have a finite set of words, you learn how to use them wisely, in ways they are not intended to be used, but in the end, they work. They more than work. They say more things in the wrong places than they would if used conventionally.
Ipso facto ergo.... Anita knows how to make a beautiful mess of things.
In more inopportune times, there would only be the goat to thank, but thankfully, it didn’t appear that sanity was bleeding. Horribly disfigured, perhaps, but in essence, I always presumed him to be anarchic in his depiction of the modern burlesque. For the more feeble-minded, an itinerary of degradation would be in order for the convalescence of dear Samson, whose little midget body has suffered the worst slings and arrows of insults. I never realized the extent of his pain- I was bleeding, after all. And it didn’t seem to matter that the clock was ticking backwards, or that the elevator failed to elevate me. Something was missing. It wouldn’t have occurred to me otherwise, but I happened to be sitting at the time. So I grabbed the little midget by the arms (not realizing that the limbs had become autonomous to what was left of the body). I shook it violently and I said “I renounce sanity! Madness is real! To be mad is to be natural!” It was more than she could bear, but I was compelled to do it. For my own part, I had none. Someone had already taken the ferris wheel to the rodeo, had already drawn the superfluous nipple on the Venus, had already bit and barked at the Pope while he drove away in his golf cart. All I could do was applaud the fact that it was funny.
... it occurs to me that I've always loved writing this way. all equisite corpsy-like and autonomation styles. It's why I love fridge poetry too. it's so nice not to have to make sense. Or to make sense in a really nonsensical way. All my fridge poetry makes perfect sense, it just makes it's point via a dizzyingly circuitous path. Here's my theory:
Fridge Poetry is like Vipassina Meditation.
and furthermore...
Vipassina Meditation is like having a box over your head. (stay with me, here). You are confined by a very specific and somewhat arbitrary set of rules; you have very finite limits and you learn to function within the confines of these limitations, this box. You learn to be happy with a little. So that, when you remove the box, you can truly appreciate the space around you, and use it to its fullest potential.
Fridge Poetry is the same- you have a finite set of words, you learn how to use them wisely, in ways they are not intended to be used, but in the end, they work. They more than work. They say more things in the wrong places than they would if used conventionally.
Ipso facto ergo.... Anita knows how to make a beautiful mess of things.
March 12, 2008 at 7:09 p.m.
a beautiful mess... thats always been my favorite description of anything.