I’m not too good at networking at kissing the asses of administrators or of established poets & having to swallow their subsidized verse or self-seeking banter I’m not too keen to read my work out in public to pimply faced nobs or drunken yobs in uni pubs or clubs I’m not too fussed about workshopping my stuff in small groups to poets who advocate this school or that who agonize over each word each syllable who squeeze out every last pimple of significance from their work * I like the idea that editors vociferously hate my shit—that it’s too weird that it’s off the planet that it’s too populist, too full of profanity I like the idea that my work will be considered by the Literature Board as being ‘devoid of any literary merit’, that it is not being read by academics or anthologised by multinational book publishers I like the idea I’m not being paid for this poem because if you bought it & you didn’t like it I wouldn’t have to tell you to GO FUCK YOURSELF!
—George Anderson http://georgedanderson.blogspot.ca/
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I had been drinking whiskey for
8 hours in my apartment and it was now about 9pm and I decided to go to a bar I’d only just moved to Newtown this would be my first night out I found the crappiest looking bar I could and went inside (nice looking bars always hassle you when your drunk: crappy bars appreciate any business they can get) I ordered 2 whiskeys and was feeling pretty good I had been listening to music and watching old m.m.a fights most of the day “What you celebrating pal?” said the bartender “I have an m.m.a fight in 2 weeks.” “Why are you drinking!” “It doesn’t matter. I will walk straight through him,” I said and shadow boxed for a few seconds “Good luck mate,” he said and I took a seat at the table by the door I could hear the bartender talking about me and laughing with another customer I finished my drinks and went to the bar the bartender had a grin on his face “Another drink champ?” “You want to be part of my training camp?” he didn’t respond I left the bar and got a cab to the brothel several girls introduced themselves I told the skinny young blonde with the small boobs and red lingerie I was a poet “You look more like a fighter,” she said “No I am really a poet.” “Sure. What do you write about: beating people up and sleeping with hookers.” “That all depends on the hooker,” I said and followed her tiny beautiful ass upstairs. —Brenton Dean Booth brentonbooth.weebly.com |
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