stillfugue

I love how those forms control me.
Carl, idiot, don’t use the word ‘love’ in a poem.
Forms restrain me.
sensibilities rock my brain and soak me and make considerations so thick and make my tummy churn.
I don’t know how to think.
You know I’m sick, so I’ll say that I don’t believe in thinking with art.

I need restraint.
I need seat belts.
I need tape on my mouth.
I need hairspray.
I NEED RULES. GIVE ME POETRY RULES!

When I am free, I am really the town idiot who needs to be locked in the county jail.
I suck.
Give me restraint and make me good.
There are so many characters, as in letters,
they swim through our modern world. I never see all of the characters I want to see.
Who reads this shit? Or that shit?
No one, idiot, and don’t use the word ‘shit’ in a poem,
stupid fuck.

So if they don’t read, why do I screw around with these forms.
I’m a rebel, but I do love forms. I love fugues, but I’ve written fugues in English,
and people are right-minded
to lock me up forever.
So I hate forms and I want to cuss and storm. I want forms that blast me
into the darkest areas
of my diseased mind,
so slash the forms, fuck the forms.
but I really need to work on my enjambments.

I want to tell the truth about what a sickly weak character I am, who is not fit for walking on the earth,
but who on earth would read that shit?
Give me my pen, my paper.
Let me read my books.
Feel free to lock me away if you give me pen, paper, and my favorite authors,
and leave me alone.
This poem sucks more than all of the others combined.
I need forms.
But none of the forms are real. None of them are true in the least bit. Isn’t that funny?