thank you poem sexy transvestite

thank you poem

Human Body Parts Talking to Each Other
in the Refrigerator

(First published in Other Voices Literary Magazine,
online edition)


The earth got lost and couldn't find its orbit around the sun, then your refrigerator opened its huge gigantic mouth and began licking the moon, the traffic driving by became thousands of restless syllables trying to bash out of your head, then your building jumped on a molecule and floated away to one of your memories, and nobody could find the ground because the earth was lost inside a poem so everybody floated away into the ocean of black coffee that surrounded the earth and drowned and the poem whirled out of control of the Poet and ate a huge hole through the sky and all the suns poured transvestites all over the earth and then everything began floating out of your house and the poem became a car crash
Copyright 2004 by Wolf Larsen. All Rights Reserved.

Do you make a habit of writing down apocalyptic dream sequences?

Not sure how representative this is of the rest of the people here, but I respond thusly: :confused: Huh?? :confused:

I enjoyed it. Honestly, I did. I think I sort of understood it. Well, almost.

My, how choppy my thoughts become this late at night.

Quite interesting! to be frank, i'm in a good mood today, so maybe it's my mood's effect!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

lol funny. it tries a bit hard though--not you wolf, the poem.

It's interesting, but I don't quite understand....

Dear Mr. WolfLarsen,
I wish to offer a bit of friendly criticism; I say friendly because I would do the same for one of my closest. While I do not deny that the seeds of thought or truth may be found in the subconscious, I do feel that those seeds are done a disservice when dug up and thrown at the conscious world before coming to fruition. Fancy a farmer selling a hungry man seeds. This presentation of words from a free mental flow may be interesting to you, but it is not dissimilar from subconscious imagery that all humans may find by looking below the surface of their own minds. In consequence, I’m convinced that this is a peculiar brand of laziness that you display. Why would anyone care to decipher your mental flow, just because you wrote it down, when we all have our own encrypted messages to work on? If, on the other hand, you feel that these dissociated phrases contain a vital truth, and therefore must be shared with humanity, it is your job as a writer to translate them into conscious thought. This is the task of the writer, and always has been; the poet is the translator for the Gods; the poet brings the world truths that people in general may be unable to attain for themselves. (I say truths regardless of whether the truth is a lie, as I often like to read lies as much as truths.) Your ultramodern sensibilities are a definite step back, as they allow you a pretence of human communication without actually conveying any truths. As for inexplicability in literature, particularly poetry, I was under the impression that the movement toward non-expression and chaos was thoroughly explored and subsequently rejected during the Modernist era. This does certainly dash your vision of a new literary world; or did I misunderstand your “Wrecking Ball” intention to simply destroy the old without providing a suitable replacement? Anyway, Ezra Pound would have done the reading world a great service by resisting the urge to take up his pen when he felt a Canto coming on. The common misconception is that inexplicability is difficult to attain; anyone can be inexplicable. On the other hand, Ezra Pound would have done the world an even greater service by actually making the intense effort to translate each Canto for us. After all, though the whisperings of the subconscious are as close to a universal current as humans can get, the wide range of speculations that they afford make them a negligible means of conveying truths.
I certainly don’t intend to ask you to restrict your self-express to previously successful literary styles and formats; by all mean, do what you will, but please do not mock the literary world with an assumption that you are a messiah. The one thing that I do ask, and I ask it for you rather than of you, is that you find some means incorporating context. This is the cornerstone of literary endeavor; without context, Emerson’s lidless eyeball would be raving nonsense; without context Eliot’s “pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas” would be worthless. These two examples are not worthless, though neither writer went out of his way to explain the meanings. I do not ask for explanations; the context should always suffice for the purpose of explication. Mere words do not constitute human communication; context is the vital link between us. I say this with the assumption that all writing, no matter of what class of poetry or prose, does have in common the duty of human communication. If your views differ on this point, and you have no intention of communicating with us (which I don’t take to be the case, or you would forego posting on this site and publishing in general) perhaps your best option would be to move to the wilderness and write to yourself. I do prefer to think that everyone who takes up a pen has the potential to impress me. I base this self-inflicted bias on a comparison of the works of Gertrude Stein. As a Wife has a Cow a Love Story, while admittedly mesmerizing, lacks context, and is therefore inexplicable, which also means that it contains no manner of implication. If a work neither presents a superficial truth, nor an implied truth, there is nothing to speculate, and it is therefore dead. However, The Making of Americans, while forcing the reader to wade through a sea of repetitions, is chock full of context, and implies much. From this instance I glean the hope that potential does not always present itself in the whole of one’s work, but it may be assumed to be present in the author.
Though it’s too late to cut this short, I’ll stop there. I do not wish to engage in name-calling, or to tell you that you suck—I just want you to tell me something real.

This is a revive of an old thread, my pardons, but I came across this thread and thought to myself that though people don't always understand the poet, the poet can be successful. **how profound** ??

Personally, I did not "get" the poem posted above. BUT: although I did not understand what message Wolf was sending with that poem, his formula for writing such stuff has made him somewhat successful (look at his website).