Avant-Garde Poetry Contest 2

Quote:

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Originally Posted by HCabret

Lokasenna: It seems that you've written a critique of metamodernism from a postmodern perspective. You fully and wholeheartedly embrace ironic detatchment, but your poem lacks the characteristic sincere engagement of metamodernism. That being said, I enjoyed your poem and thought it was very funny. Ironically (or maybe not), metamodernists would embrace the "fascist" constrainsts of pre-modern verse in an attempt the convey a reconstructionist mythopoeia.

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I'm glad you found it funny - thanks for judging! And congratulations, YesNo!

Any others? Avant-garde! Avant-garde!

I guess there is no one else.

The winner is Pendragon! I liked all the -onic sounds.

Thank you. Let's go with "subtle"

I turned the key locking the front door and went down the steps
to follow the sidewalk to the library thinking about people blowing
up restaurants and thinking what it would be like to be in one of
those restaurants eating my last meal and not knowing it was my
last meal and maybe it would be a valuable thing to do, since life
was short anyway, to volunteer to be their target but I didn’t know
how this would help them see things differently still someone was
going to be their target and typical targets probably had other plans
for their day when I met Gerald who said that no matter how much
self-hypnosis he tried he still did not feel very good about himself
and I asked him if he was using positive messages or negative
messages when he was in his trances and he said they were obviously
negative because he didn’t feel good about himself but they should
still work and I told him the mind is tricky and if he wanted to trick
it back then he had to be subtle which made him feel even more
negative about himself because he realized he wasn’t even subtle
and then I told him to forget what I just told him and he said it was
difficult now to forget what I just said and so I decided to forget it
for him and we continued walking to the library and I was feeling
good, looking at all the details that life manifested on the street and
Gerald wanted to know why I was so happy and I told him I didn’t
know I was happy and that made him feel even worse and he wanted
to know how I did it without hypnosis or drugs and I said maybe I
got high on life and he said that was garbage and it probably was
and he said that even if everything I thought were true, whatever
that was, if I had enough brains, which I apparently didn’t, and if I
were subtle enough there are definitely ways to see it all differently.

The pale white king on his horse looking up at
the aerolites burning above in the greene sky
leads the lamentatious cavalcade down the street.
Following come the children of Eden through a
raging storm of bayonets pointed down by the
king's soldiers and his fleet of paper salesmen.
Next will come a poet with drums beating to the
rhythms of the morning's dawn's sleeping blue garden.
In the sundered sea of red comes out a prophet
from the bank, a thief before coming home to you.
Stolen everything from his father, everything
he could carry thrown down a dark city alley.
A bowling ball rolling down the cobbles coming
to a stop at the feet of a mugger with a
million names a long way from home telling him to
feel grief over the loss of his newly dead son.
The pale white king's tongue laden with heavy black lead,
unable to speak of this sorrowful feeling.
The royal roads, crooked and vague, running north towards
the king's castle, burning yellow with sun during
the long winter's last snow before the spring's first rain

Due to circumstances elsewhere on this forum, I may be forced to cease posting on this forum. Please feel free to remove my poem from consideration as part of this contest if this happens.

Cabret

I hope you stick around, Cabret. Forget about the other places on this forum, although I find that hard to do myself, and write more avant-garde pieces.