(Source: online)
Aha! Come now one and all
You simple-minded children of mine
Its evening time and your father is high
Come hear his constipated thoughts
/Intermission…
No! I am not playing on words
Yes! I am an unceremonious teetotaller
And these ain’t inane rants
Of a drunk old hungrily grunting fool/
Of the unwise poet who prepared a meal
In the pot of ikain* soup
Does he think artistic wisdom is to be found
In the potpourri of fascinating words and ideas
He pulls his shit together
As he enters creativity’s toilet
His eyes look ahead
Staring
Hard
Unblinking
Like an obstipated mad cow
And proceeds to desecrate the arena
He now holds his head empty of words
Relieved of the mangled mass
Now flowing out on the screen for all to eat
He can’t do any wrong
His eyes now calm and dreamy
Like he is seeing a vision
–(come away in your thoughts with me for a mo, please…)-
That brief moment that happens on the best and worst of us
When we peek into the supernatural
Into something too awesome to be earthly
That brief moment of clarity
So brief we soon forget it amidst the many years we live
So clear our warped mind soon denies it
Because we are used to drinking muddy tadpole-infested waters
And have grown oddly morbidly fat feeding on poo
Grown too tough for simple truths and pleasures of life
Grown too twisted to swallow anything straight
And create something truly beautiful in return
-(and back to the silly story…)–
Ah! But he is the lucky one tonight
He holds his head empty of words
He is ready to believe now
He will accept any answers now
This poet will even write mathematical formulae
And pass them for artistic inspiration
Anything would do
Just pray he doesn’t fall asleep
Before making sense of all the mess he has created
In the name of art
In the name of finding an answer to life
In the name of art.
(Source: online)
*ikain soup /i: Ikain/- a local delicacy prepared amongst the tribe of Earthdwellers consisting of Immense-Knowledge-About-Immense-Nothingness.
__________________________________
BACKGROUND: Someone has said that it is very logical for an artist to admit to the unseen as he considers the artistic process –of birthing a genuine work of art. Sometimes I find me looking for some inspiration from the outside world around me (only to see the world has not learnt any new lessons since the last time I wrote about it). Then, I leisurely finger through the pages of my current life experiences for something that might jump at me (only to realize they are too confusing for even me to make any sense of them to readers), before I try piecing together highlights of my past for a way to coin a story (just to conclude on how stale the little interesting parts are). Then I scour my beliefs and views regarding life in general for a quick lesson (and end up reasonably agreeing with others they are too controversial –for me to spit out for anyone looking for an easy read). Soon, I am desperately clubbing through everywhere for just anything to write, because my fingers are becoming very itchy. But sometimes, without warning, I suddenly start feeling almost feverish and words I cannot quite hear start pouring through my head. That moment, I know I have to write something, anything. And I write. And the words form. This piece is a mild acknowledgement of the process of attempting to create something sensible from a mess of ideas in one’s human mind.
P.S. If you are still confused –understandably –might I suggest you regard the father, the unwise poet and the author as one and same person.
I Feel Shadows 
I’d love to see what you write when you aren’t constipated! geez! I really liked that doc, but the “ps” threw me…. when you said the writer, the Father and the unwise poet are one and the same…. I never thought of God as unwise… ever… about anything… I was wondering if you’re dissin’ God there, saying He isn’t a wise poet!! I feel like I should run for cover before the lightning strikes!!! lmao So clear our warped mind soon denies it… struck me as morbidly true! it’s killing us all. great line amongst a truly good poem..or rant. 🙂
I feel truly humbled you thoroughly enjoyed this.
Hahaha… Please take note they weren’t in capital letters. I was referring to the writer of this piece, and that’d be yours truly.
When I have personal complaints against God, I try not to express it openly because my words would confuse people and give then very wrong impressions. I address these issues like I’d an issue with a loved one. I don’t get on Facebook and broadcast a quarrel with a loved one when I could have addressed that person directly. At best, in public, I only go as far as admitting how confused and ignorant I tend to be about His ways asking for an explanation from anyone who (truly) understands better. And of course, I know slightly better, I think, than to swallow just anything people claim to know about the unseen these days.
And when I complain, I hope Father sees the desperate child humbly crying behind the rants.
I laugh morbidly with you too at our state.
Good having you around again, Shardy.
http://youtu.be/_E6D33XUwn8 ……cool and funky like your piece. I always enjoy your writing. = >
Hahahaha! Was funky alright.
Nice having you here again. Glad you always do. Glad.
You won’t believe what struck me the most in this piece is ‘Ikain soup’, that’s just epic. Great job as always. To think that a string of words of nothingness could become this classic piece is admirable. Keep up the good work.
Hahahaha! I’ll try to believe that. I would be shocked too to discover that something sensible could come from a constipated writer’s messy string of words.
Glad you enjoyed it.
Really nice hosting you here, lady.
I can’t seem to reach your site. It said that the authors had deleted it.
That was incredible.
Humbled you think it so.
You shouldn’t be
Word.
which word???
Word. I mean, schmack!
that is almost a word, I guess
Dude, it’s in the Canadian dictionary. Coined by one “Trent P. Lewin”.
They just let anybody make up words now
Welcome to the days of the internet, holmes.
right
Creativity’s toilet… my goodness. Doc, did you ever think that the muse is real, some combination of God, the wind, how much you slept the night before, and how high you might be at the time? I suspect a conspiracy in your brain, mine too, overseen by the elusive monkey. The words come and go, but when they come, they come. And we have no choice… No choice at all.
Thank you for the poem, it fills for me a significant gap.
The muse is not so plainly what it used to mean to me before. I guess experience has shown that it seems a combination of many factors that gets one’s creativity gears rolling at a point in time. I am not shocked an -if I may beg to use the term -experienced writer as yourself should ask this question.
an excellent laxative: firstly pull one’s head out of arse, secondly chew one’s words with mouth closed, lastly, pass the blunt – don’t be selfish.
All of the Bupa insurance gains, including fast use of post and a specialist -analytical care, makes them the right choice.
Medicaid.
Audiences continued to take in all the scares with each additional movie, as thee sfories quickly
seemed to go from horror to moderate scares to a little ridiculouys even for a movie, losing all appearance of any hold to reality.
When we have theta braikn waves in our consciousness
as an adult, our ability to learn language easily is possible.
The fjlm used different cameras, switching between rooms, and a
few campy moments but still frightening at times.