words recycled like radio songs

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13. a half-assed attempt to live up to the thread name

i was kissing Valentino on a crystal blue Italian stream
now let’s go to Paris, i don’t care if we get lost in the scene

don’t call my name, don’t call my name, alejandro
don’t call tonight unless you want to hurt me

need your love, your love drug, need your love drug
‘cause you don’t really love me, no no, you just keep me hanging on

anxiety anxiety-oh, i feel anxiety
‘cause now you’re just somebody that i used to know

and i’m sure if i was so inclined
i could keep this going til the end of time
but i’ll spare us both and stop now.

it’s not as if i don’t have ears
to hear that all pop music is the same,
and yet i listen to these hazy 80s facsimiles
because it’s something to fill the space
between my ears, between phone calls,
and maybe for an afternoon i can pretend
it’s not the end of the world.

Spoiler

(songs quoted in order: The Bangles “Manic Monday”, Miley Cyrus “End of the World” (which I am seriously addicted to like I’ve probably listened to it 100 times today, but it sounds a freaking lot like “Manic Monday”) Lady Gaga “Alejandro”, Lady Gaga “Don’t Call Tonight” (yeah I’ve been bumping Mayhem like a lot and this isn’t too crazy bc they’re the same artist but still), Lady Gaga “Love Drug”, Kim Wilde “Keep Me Hanging On” (yeah I thought I was tripping remembering an 80s cover of a Supremes song but it blends into LoveDrug so well), Doechii “Anxiety”, Gotye “Somebody That I Used to Know”
"You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand." Leonardo Da Vinci

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14. on poetry and weight loss (cw weight talk, language)

Spoiler

writing poetry and losing weight
are opposite endeavors.

poetry needs hunger to fuel it;
if you don’t want something, you can’t write it.
it might be something you always wanted but never got (that christmas toy your parents couldn’t buy)
it could be something you had, but then lost. (a relationship, most likely. or someone who died. or someone who is dead to you.)
it could be something you thought you wanted, but now you have it,
and you don’t want it anymore, and that’s its own sort of grief. (also a relationship, most likely, but it could be a job, a degree, a house)
it could be something you were always told to want, but don’t (the husband, the kids, the picket fences).
the specifics aren’t the point. the point is that there is a gap
between the wanting, the having and the no-longer-wanting, and somewhere in those gaps
there is a pen and a paper and a poem if you dare to pick it up.

weight loss is also fueled by hunger, by discomfort, by sacrifice.
but you can’t dwell on those things, can’t wallow in the pain
of eating the same things day in and day out, of waking up early to exercise
because you’re too tired at night to even take a fucking walk
and you just want to scream about how fucking unfair it is
that other people don’t have to track every morsel and can stay thin.
the rewards are so far away, no poem can fill the gap.

if i could run
as far as i could write, this wouldn’t be an issue.
but lately every line
feels like taking a step in vegas in july
while weighing 350 lbs, and remembering that pain
is the only way i stay hungry.
"You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand." Leonardo Da Vinci

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15. the last poem i will ever write?

is this the end?
after two decades, is this
the last poem i will ever write?

that seems
a sufficiently dramatic way
to start the last poem,
if this is it.

some poets might leave it at that,
the question being the poem in and of itself,
but i am not that sort of writer.
my prose ends branches into a thousand paths
to the happy ending.
my poetry once knew better
when to end, but somewhere along the way
i decided my every breath needed further elaboration,
that i needed to say the same thing a hundred
different ways or it wasn’t actually said
(even though we know that repeating yourself
is no guarantee you’ll be heard, and indeed,
you’re more likely to be tuned out)

i’ve thought i was done before,
and i’ll likely think it again,
(which would mean this isn’t the last poem,
because i would have to start writing poems again
to believe that i am done with them again.)

to borrow a phrase from the evangelicals,
is this just the season of life
in which i write [redacted] instead of poetry?
(I don’t think they’d appreciate that phrase
being used for [redacted], but i strive never to be
the sort of person evangelicals appreciate.)

and as much as i struggle to start
to write the last poem of my life
(or this month, at least)
i struggle even more with how to end it.
surely, if this is the last poem
i will ever write, it deserves
a poetic ending? an ending so perfect,
i could never hope to outdo it
if i live another hundred years?

i have no such ending,
so i am forced to conclude
that the title was clickbait,
and this is not
the last poem i’ll ever write.
"You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand." Leonardo Da Vinci

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Spoiler

the last poem i will ever write?
...
that the title was clickbait,
and this is not
the last poem i’ll ever write.

well, at least i was hooked from the beginning! in all honesty, though, i really enjoyed this poem. it encapsulates such a detrimental part of writing poetry---that initial hesitance of "is this poem done yet?" which is something i've been struggling with myself recently! great job this napo, niteowl!
it is always another hand that guides me.




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Spoiler

Tae! So, 11 and 12. Yes, hard to read, but also so eminently readable - but you have that way with words.

I love 13, but that's at least half because I love playing with titles/lyrics/recycling poetry and blackout poetry and all that.
***Under the Responsibility of S.P.E.W.***
(Sadistic Perplexion of Everyone's Wits)

Medieval Lit! Come here to find out who Chaucer plagiarized and translated - and why and how it worked in the late 1300s.

I <3 Rydia



What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.
— Albert Pines