22/101 (explicit)

[thoke]

22/101*

I
wrote this one
diagonally across
two pages of Moleskine.
I bought one of these for reasons
of ponceyness, but years of outdoor shop chic
left me feeling outside constantly.
There’s no shame in a mother’s boy
killing her off and fucking the Dad,
negating a century of Freudian farting,
embracing the age of the rape joke
and buying himself
a good-looking
note-
book.


_________________
*See '1/101': viewtopic.php?f=20&t=8708

(Should be self-explanatory.)

[bodkin]

Hi,

I won't say I didn't understand a word.

I understood quite well up to "outdoor shop chic" and I think that means dressing in walking clothes all the time?

Beyond that point I'm rather lost, what does the strange Freudian reversal have to do with the note book? What is a "rape joke"?

I like the phrasing of it, however, it's just the meaning that escapes me.

HTH

Ian

[Cryptic Cadence]

I also lost the meaning of this poem half-way through, it certainly is an interesting piece and would like to know what it means. The title doesn't help either. For some reason I laughed when I first read it and then I got peeved. The 'age of the rape joke' I assume is when rape is joked about these days, the trivialization of it? For some reason it sounds like a boy raping his dad

The freudian farting - linked to the rape joke where farting when raped is a popular joke?

[thoke]

From what you've both said, it seems that you do understand the poem. It seems that you understand it perfectly, but you find it quite unsatisfying, and I think this is quite reasonable. 23/101 was better - read that one.

Ben

[BenJohnson]

For some strange reason this reminded me of Clockwork Orange, I think it is the violence of the acts combined with an act that seems to show lack of remorse. A very disturbing piece of writing, though that does nothing to negate the writing. It looks almost like it started life as a rictameter, then sprawled outside the guidelines. However the unusual line endings and shape enhance (for me) that dislocated Clockwork Orange feel.

[Elphin]

Ben

I quite like this one. The shape is good and the first three lines in particular grab me. Killing mother is just fine but I would cut the rest of the psychobabble to leave this

I
wrote this one
diagonally across
two pages of Moleskine.
I bought one of these for reasons
of ponceyness, but years of outdoor shop chic
left me feeling outside constantly.
There’s no shame in a mother’s boy
killing her off, negating a century
of Freudian farting, and buying
himself a good-looking
note-
book.

Less is more and all that - this experiment of yours seems to be working

elph

[emuse]

I like Elph's suggestions on this one Ben. Very tight (groan).

Smiles.

e

[thoke]

What are you groaning about, emuse?

The shape is due to the fact that it was written diagonally over two pages of a notebook. If I start changing the shape, I'll have to get rid of the first four lines because they won't make sense any more. And if I delete the first four lines, the rest of the poem won't make any sense.

This leaves me with the following rewrite:

[ray miller]

Is ponceyness a word? If it is, then ponciness, surely? Think "constantly outside " would be better. You should give these poems proper titles so that if you become famous and one day you're appearing at the Hay Festival, for instance, the adoring crowd will be reduced to shouting out,"read us number 22,Ben" or 73 if you get that far. You'll probably be really old by this time and won't remember which one is number 22, you'll fumble about with papers and look foolish. If you're very famous, though, you could just tell them to fuck off.

[thoke]

You should give these poems proper titles so that if you become famous and one day you're appearing at the Hay Festival, for instance, the adoring crowd will be reduced to shouting out,"read us number 22,Ben" or 73 if you get that far. You'll probably be really old by this time and won't remember which one is number 22, you'll fumble about with papers and look foolish. If you're very famous, though, you could just tell them to fuck off.

If I ever become a famous poet, I will pretend I never wrote number 22.

I might start naming my poems, though. It might make it easier for people to guess which ones are good and which ones aren't before they decide whether to bother reading them. In fact, I think I'll rename the latest one.

Ben

[ray miller]

Can I be your agent?

[thoke]

You can be my secret agent.