Listening to: Charles Mingus, Mingus in Europe
You can blame Mamacita. I insisted that I cannot write poetry and she insisted that what I write is poetry.
We got into this a couple weeks ago and she made the mistake of asking me to send some examples of my "poetry". Her second mistake was insisting that my poetry was... um, "poetic" and that led to her third mistake - inspiring me to write more.
Blame her, you're stuck with this schlock:
Two hundred, five hundred, a thousand years ago,
the poorest of the poor murdered their babies,
and fed the fresh corpses to their hungry dogs,
without a second thought or fear of damnation;
Hell was an abstraction and with another mouth
to feed, and immediate needs not entirely met,
it was impossible to imagine any place worse than
the eternal toil between birth and death; Hell
was a luxury for those who could afford to think.
Our memories are miniscule, hermetic, locked in
tiny boxes seperated from the past, our history.
Beneath our path are countless forgotten bones,
rattling silent, wherever we walk, lost in thought.
Yet still, we claim,
We know everything.
It's up to you to give Mamacita her just desserts...
Afterthought: It occurred to me that this could be interpreted as an exercise in supreme self-indulgence: "Check out my mad skillz," or some other cutesey-pie ploy. Nothing could be further from the truth. I think this poem is CRAP and I'm relying on you, dear readers, to tell me where I go wrong, what's lacking or what's too much. What I know about poetry would fit into an eye-dropper (with room left for a hefty dose of dramamine) and I'd love some direction, criticism, and back-handed brutality. Any comments would be appreciated (and just might save your life).