Dear readers, it is with affirmed misanthropy that I wish to offer you the observations of my keen critical eye on the myriad of so called “emo-poems” that have befouled the venerable literary institution that is Roderick Popplestone’s Arbitrary Collection this fine month of April.
Before I commence, however, allow me to emphasise that it in no way is my intention to drag the honour of the present youths through the muck and mire of our present present, for we all know to hold the youths of today in high regards and to expect nothing short of pristine intellectuality from them at any given point. Oh no, dear reader, I merely wish to focus your attention on the undeniable impropriety of including poems of the “emo” variety in forums such as this one. I respect the emo-subspecies. Have no doubt about that. But does that really exclude the possibility of disliking them simultaneously, in the Darwinian sense, that is?
Take this Margit chap for instance. His (I choose to believe this to be a man’s name) works of late reek from far away of literary dysentery, dilettante lyricism and a distinct lack of social interaction on the emotional wavelength of man’s communication scale. While I respect “Margit”, if this ridiculous combination of phonemes is really his name, I find myself oddly attracted to the notion of hurting him, both physically and emotionally, the latter modus operandi simply because of his already apparent emotional frailty.
With your permission, venerable reader, I would like to ask my head butler to procure for me the true identity and whereabouts of this “Margit” character, so that I may go there and taunt him freely and copiously with criticisms concerning his utter lack of artistry. I wish to befoul his supposed poetry with words like “awful”, “amateurish” and “poop”… You get my meaning, I’m sure. I would like pin him down on the ground outside the hovel of an abode I’m sure he spends his waking hours in and thrash him with my cane for all to see, to spit in his eye and recite Racine to the bastard, so that he may see the true use of vowels and consonants intended by no lower faculty than God himself!
For goodness’ sake, people, there is a reason why God invented poetry, and that reason was not to hide your lacking sentimental robustness behind demonstrations of expressive garbage, excessive references to safety pins and what can only be defined as the lyrical equivalent of a hardened lump of semi-digested pineapple that has somehow passed nearly unscathed and still recognizable through the elaborate gastric system of a three-legged donkey with a drug problem and no sizeable social life.
Poetry, indeed, should be part of our everyday lives. It should be used to express true emotions, such as avarice, contempt and the loathing for the common man that may only be found among witty court jesters and so forth. Poetry is the vessel by which we promote common decency, amorous beliefs and optimist in light of the present circumstances, even if this optimism needs to be dishonestly constructed to be believed by any audience at any time.
Therefore, “Margit”, you complete and utter turd of a human being, you disgraceful jumble of pubescent incoherence and hormonal imbalances, I chose to label you the absolute evil of our artistic world in that I can’t believe anyone moronic enough to fashion “poems” of the sort exhibited in this month’s issue of The Collection without there being some hidden criminal agenda of malevolence and sin lurking behind every word and every circumvented or otherwise elipted rhyme.
Damn you, “Margit”, for somehow making your way into this wonderful literary venue. Damn you to hell and back! |
