Maya Angelou is
the worst thing
to happen to poetry
ever.
Her poems are stinkier
than catshit, and filled
with boring imagery.
Seriously, if you ever
need help falling asleep
at night, just read some
of her boring, horrible poetry.
Side effects include suicide and murder, however,
as the terrible nature of her bullshit can make
you lose your mind.
And also, would someone please wipe that
sick smile off her face?
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5 comments:
Sir:
Enough about poetry. It is by its very nature unquantifiable in any reproducible way. There is no meter stick of poetry by which to claim Ms Angelou as the worst poet of all time. To each reader of poetry (all six of them) poems have various effects, and while one may use descriptors such as "fucking awful" and "more boring than words chosen at random from the dictionary," another may find that same poem "thought-provoking" or "as beautiful as a butterfly sitting on a rainbow."
As an example, I love cheese, but Chinese people do not. They just don't eat a lot of dairy. Who is right? I think we're each right in our own special way.
Now: go join Oprah's book club and stop whining.
Mr. Polar-
(W)e meet again. In response to your pathetic defense of Ms. Angelou, I will say this first. If there (w)ere a meter stick of poetry, someone should use it to smack all of the poets across the mouth. That would teach them a lesson!
Now the battle you have with Chinese people over your insatiable appetite for cheese is strictly between you and those people. I personally hate cheese and any organism that partakes in the ritual known as "eating of the cheese." However, I also hate people (w)ho condescend to the masses of weaklings who cannot stop eating cheese and pretend that dairy is beneath them, for all people are equally scummy and pathetic. So, in sum, you're both (w)rong Mr. Polar, you and the Chinese people.
And in your post you said, "I think (w)e're each right in our own special way." (W)hat kind of a hippie are you , Mr. Polar? (W)hat's next, dude? Flower power? Daisy chains? Orgies in the mud? I lived the 60s in a haze of drug-induced fistflurries and robotic deceptions of government entitites, so don't you dare infringe upon my ability to characterize the history of that time period. Or, I'll eat doughnuts if you (w)on't.
Now I've clearly lost my point, (w)hich makes me a horrible appetite suppressant in the vein of smoking banana peels and drinking gin. Oh yes, the point is Maya Angelou is a most nefarious doctor of poetry.
If you have more to say, send it. Your posts are always insane, (w)hich is (w)hy (w)e are gathered here today.
In answer to the question regarding what kind of hippy I am I can only say that I eat cheese and use a 1960s run-on writing style, and that the similarities between myself and hippies end there. You see, in their day hippies were unstoppable, with powers like making peace signs, singing peace songs, smoking drugs and ingesting possum scat, being at once both very hairy and naked, and accidentally giving birth. Their only fault was their lack of resolve, for you see, within a few short years they surrendered their powers to become like those they had once harmlessly (because of being outnumbered, most would say) protested in the streets wearing beads and eating only salads. "Hell no, we won't eat doughnuts," they had shouted in a purple haze. Here, a shaggy unkempt haircut swapped for a corporate mustache, there, drugs were traded for jobs. And soon hippy vans were driven to Lockheed-Martin factories, where they were retrofitted with racks of missiles, 50 caliber machine guns, and nozzles for spraying anti-daisy herbicides, becoming some of the most powerful military hardware of the US Government.
So bring me your battered meter stick of poetry, dripping with the blood of beatniks who shout "furking hippieses!" into bipartisan megaphones. A meter becomes a yard, and a stick becomes a branch, and I, Mr Hightower, become a hippy.
Mr. Polar Opposites-
You've said it. Hippies were weak-minded people who only held their resolve for the brief time that it brought them joy. When the time came to move into suburban homes and buy Grateful Dead live albums, they gladly took up the invitation and rolled their VW buses into the lakes of yesterday.
On to the real topic at hand, disposable income. It has retaliated in recent years as a weapon of the common folk who place such large flags of importance on its winged back. The disposable income monster was what wiped away the dirty hair of the hippies and cleaned up their muddy senses of self-exploration and it's the disposable income that has made American creatures so goddamned lazy and pathetic. Disposable income allows no hunger and no sorrow and no pain, and without those things the human instinct grows dull, like a knife that knows not the cut of flesh for hundreds of years. Disposable income drags its knuckles over this land, and I laugh as it makes lethargy and poor health the standard beacon of "I Am American!"
Battly cry. Cheese puff auxiliary power has sweetened the coffers of military exuberance. Now, I shall step aside and await your return, Mr. DonRonPowerMongerPolarStrain.
Dr. Hilton Hightower, of the Highland Hightowers of the nth Degree of Decessilent Decision-making Prowess
Or, I'll strut my stuff, longshanks!
Hilton:
Disposable in-come? Although I believe economists and other eggheads prefer the term discretionary in-come. But disposable is more appropriate, since the net result is to purchase poorly-fabricated crap which will be disposed of in a under-ground trash-heaps. Bollocks. The real tragedy of disposable in-come is that a Homo sapiens could use it to escape from his or her job, which they hate, and spend more time lounging around not do-ing anything i.e. (w)riting poems, (w)hich, (w)hile perfectly use-less, does not harm animal and vegetable life like other endeavors. Crothces. Every time you drink a Coke, a terrorist bludgeons an en-dangered skink to death*. Criminy. I for one am sick of (w)orking. Shite. I suppose it's un-pleasant being continuously stalked by the shrieking Neebuses of Vlagnar-7 and their co-horts, but you've never known misery until you've held down a job. Fump-nards.
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