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June 05, 2007



this, 'it prevents angelic dignity I move to the bathroom', made me smile. Sometimes you happen upon stuff and it seems at just the right time, and you realise that you will inevitably always keep going back to poems and the poem-writers, and that to try to work out exactly why may be an interesting thing, but most probably futile, because language to describe what someone else has done with language so often seems to fail. I suppose this is when the poking the poem onto whichever friend 'must' know occurs. I'll get some more of his work :)


I don't hate the poem, "Song of the I-Self". But there is something too bald about it. Too obvious. It's like a sweet fuddled guy who has drunk three pale ales rapidly and wants to be very, very honest with you. This poet uses capital letters ("FORCES") where he half-consciously senses that he has neglected to imagine his subject intensely. It's like the guy in the pub using volume to compensate for lack of articulation. Still, as the poem's author, I don't hate the poem; and I love Katy for her comment on June 15. We could talk, at a pub, before we die.

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