D.B.Tarpley's Amazing Ass Blog-4/17/18

Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,

I would like to take a moment today to discuss poetry.

Ughhh! Right?

Poetry is essentially word jazz and as such is often a love or hate topic for many people. Which is weird because most people love music and song lyrics could generally be paralleled as poetry. From the stunningly simple to the absurdly abstract, poetry runs the gamut of verbal expression – only limited by its creator’s imagination. There are rules of course but like the best jazz, the rules are unspoken and merely acknowledged through the presence of cool.

There is a traditional A/B/C/B rhyme pattern – exemplified in the classic:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Sugar is sweet

And so are you

And then there is the technique of taking something common and expected and turning it on its ear:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I want to stick my penis in your butt

There are many different rhyme patterns which you can stick to but I find it often best to rhyme when it feels appropriate and to not whenever you can. Language is a beautiful thing and the words themselves will often find a pentameter which is unique to their specific combination. And yes, it is not uncommon to spend hours agonizing over one word’s placement. Each word can be like a note and the wrong note often rings sour. Indeed, the great challenge of great poetry is often matching the exact words to an exacting theme.

Poems, of course, never have to BE about anything. But most tend to try to make some point or the other. I believe this stems from the overall narcissism of being a writer. We scratch rude scrapings on pieces paper in an attempt to exact some tasty part of ourselves for general consumption – making every possible effort to avoid customer indigestion.

And poetry with a message can be a beautiful thing. But when I think of poetry with a message I think about bad coffee shop rants involving sexuality, race, femininity, and cats. All important subjects but sometimes long pointy sticks are mistaken for wands of artistic majesty when in fact they are simply long pointy sticks.

I personally try to tap into some sense of abstract self when I write poetry. I usually just begin with a random line and proceed as it works itself out. Sometimes a theme develops and sometimes not. Often the title of the poem is deliberate in its inability to relate to the body of the work. This is another layer to the piece. The title is neither more important nor less important than all the other words. The totality of such is simply… poem.

For a title to be literal in my poetry is something I generally try to avoid. That is of course unless I don’t. Now how you approach the titling process in your poetry is completely 100 percent your decision. And I would never attempt to correct your wrongness. It is what makes you special.

And now ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present:

NON-SPECIFIC JUNGLE MUFFINS

Oaken branches kiss feral mud

Leaden with the weight of rotting fruit

Bitter as they are sweet

Plural, as in more than three

True wonder of the botanical verse

Dog-Damn leaky viewfinder

Silly little cow

Grazing in the meadows of forgotten lore

Stupid nothing bore

Forever sore

Polite yet snarky whore

Needing more

And more

And more

Until the weight of non-existence rears its ugly cranium

And suddenly

Guess what?

The pudding, it tastes just fine

Delicious indeed

As if Moses himself brought it down from the great Circle K in the sky

Through clouds of silken Kevlar

Artisanal suffocation

Clandestine asphyxiation

Clown hand masturbation

Hand of clown

Not your own

For you are no clown

No

This hand is

Random

Hand of stranger

One strange clown

First up then down

Pumped with ubiquitous intent

Shaft slightly bent

No give have you lent

Having give up your give for Lent

And you are almost at that point

That point you know

The point

That point where you are

That point

That

Point

Spent

And still

Oaken branches kiss feral mud

Thank you.

Have an amazing ass day.