O fuck what then?

Guest Essay by Milford Astay (Imaginary)

On Poets

All good poets and artists and serial killers are suspended adolescents, this is true. This is the ability to both mean everything and don’t give a fuck at the same time. Right between the eyes. This talent is bestowed upon every child before the child is encouraged to grow up. To grow up is death. Pay Attention. Learning is not knowing. Knowing is a hindrance to learning and a phantom limb. Knowing is death. Severed-head syndrome. Knowing is dying slowly knowingly, sweetheart. Pop song lyrics. To learn you must know fuck-all. Each small insignificant thing. Every flashing second. Nothing. With great theatrical emotion. Shakespeare, Emily D, Rock n Roll. Drama queens.

Listen to the face. The image doesn’t lie. This is nothing.

Horny as fuck, nothing in tune, love me do. All good poets and artists and serial killers are suspended adolescents, this is true. In a perpetual physical state of longing. The ability to make something matter more than anything in the world and don’t give a flying fuck at the same time. Lets order out tonight. Jesus was an adolescent and cured the sick, trash temple. Cutting is a way of writing. I’m superman you are Superjane. In reverse. Dot not crush heart love. To be disabled is to be able. AAAAGHHH! Alien status unknown. Are you washed in the blood of your young? Hanging suspended, the poet attempts to become an object in the world since only objects are worthy of worship. Dirty whore-human. Bendy. Beautiful.

I have an X-ray of my lungs in the basement. It is covered in mold. I confess. My immigrant Dorian Grey. Fucking loser.

It is impossible to know poetry. To explain poetry to a child is impossible because the child doesn’t yet know what poetry isn’t. Poetry is a toy under the bed forgotten. The last action hero. Such a conversation will go like this. What is poetry? I don’t know, like a song without music or something? That’s insane. Trash burn temple. Fuck-all. To know poetry one is setting out to be impossible, blockhead. Impossible child, adolescent, drama-queen. Fuck-all. All questions are about death. This is knowing. Thanks for calling.

Shit’s getting out of control and I kinda like it.

All good poets and artists etc. are suspended adolescents, this is true. Writing poems sometimes they forget to eat breakfast. Constantly late to appointments, drink bleach and die. Dye hair, throw fit, this is poetry. Find themselves standing for hours in the corner of a room crying. Fall over in the street for no reason. Obsessively hurt themselves and others around them for attention. This is poets. Seek to be more than they are. Seeking is not the same as being. Are u here yet? A love that is bigger and greater and more terrible than everyone elses. This is why they hate themselves too much and vice versa. Always. Such monster love! The gob. Without the “too much” the poet would not be able to write a single word, the painter’s brush rot. The very last word the poet wouldn’t be able to write would be “death”.

Since everything is too much. Many. Trash temple. Fuck-all. This is life.

To not grow up, all good poets must decline acceptable social behavior.  Wear costumes that make them real, go to Disney world with razor blades. Pretend. All sincere poets are insincere, comfortable liars. Full of venom. Die motherfucker die! They might be able to raise a family and wear the appropriate clothes to the right event but underneath it all all good poets must find “Me” time to pick at dead birds in the road, eat too much candy, stare into the sun until it hurts. Poets generally dislike religions because they consider themselves the only religion and this is how it should be. Drama queen. Fuck-all. Martyrs waiting to fall into rush traffic. Every day thousands and thousands of poets end up dead this way. Gun in mouth. Jesus was a poet, rode a half-breed. Suicide. When the child enters adolescence death and knowing rolls cigarette ashes on the child’s body. Radio humming low. The child’s pure body begins to bleed and won’t stop, ack, black ink, pores leaking, decomposition.

All composition is decomposition, this is true. Poets serial killers. Longing. All one has to do to know something is to say “I know”. This makes for poetry and art that is the opposite of good, bland, In the Middle, TV dinner. Gathering dust O this and that, substandard poetry of the “I know..” variety. Instead it is important to let go of anything you might know and hate freely with the lust and fervor of the adolescent, goth chick, duende. Pierce something. This is the purpose of manifestos and good art. Splendid newness. Arrrgggh! Trash temple. Fuck-all.

To be continued. Erased.


Coming Soon?


Have you been washed in the blood of the lamb?


This road is for  gamblers better use your sins.




3 thoughts on “O fuck what then?

  1. Milford that’s so cool and i’ll tell you why, i have four dots (unfortunately only in biro at the moment) on my knuckles (one dot on each knuckle) and in our endz normally that would mean ACAB but mine means APAL which equals All Poets Are Liars cos yeah like that guy said on here earlier Plato was right and they are downright dirty lying pretenders who only want to get in you in bed cos -WOW- they r poets. Thing is…should i get the dots needled onto my knuckles? Advice please.

  2. Needless to say, I say… hmmm… I think Milford just skipped bail with plans to return “south of the border”. It really is a terrific University.

    Gemma please send us more essays. This one was terrific.

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