Every writers supplied with a voice in their head it tells them their rubbish rips their work into shreds its a virus inside them that thrives on defeat but it couldnt stop one man, a man they called.. Keith. Now, Keith was a poet least he wrote every month and he read what he wrote although most of it stunk, it was turgid at best every word as it left would just twirl in the air like a turd in a dress and with rambling glee he would ham up his readings at times he would pause......... For no sensible reasons, his structures bedraggled the themes would unravel if duffys mills and Boone the Keith was more razzle. Tod think that with Keith that voice that inside him would have beefed up somewhat like a critical Viking that wasnt the case though see Keith wasnt frightened he werent a great writer he just really liked writing and every month in the bar with the Mic in the corner theyd slump as he started reciting this torture, dishing out words like a toilet thats blocked the images shitty the runes badly..ffforced and although theyd all dread it every week he still read it, pulling metaphors like teeth without any anesthetic it was painfull alright! And his work offered no joy but it did more than that.. it pissed off the old boys!....... See Keith was well known and his name was like venom to the old boys whod moan that it just didnt get it. What is he doing? Where is the elegance, where is the rhyme the reason the relevance, why bother trying it seems hardly tenerson, its.. a well drudged routine itd gone on for ages but one evening Keith brought out a handfull of pages and he started to read, the room became flat because even for Keith what Keith read was... Quite bad. The old boys sat back their eyes quickly tightened, this was bad.. really bad at first they sat there in silence then they shivered then howled as though in bereavement it was bad really bad they just couldnt believe it some started to shake as though channeling demons theres no rhyme shuddered one dear god theres no reason. That night they sat round, they dissected the problem Keiths work was so bad that they had to do something but what I mean what? Nothings stopping this guy you cant put him off just by rolling your eyes or refusing to clap at the end of recital, it would take more resolve, it would take something more final... So they agreed to their plan in the depths of their cloister, there was only one option the option was moider!. At the next open Mic he started reciting the old boys were armed huge bags stacked behind them each bag was full and as Keith hit stride, their hands darted down wrapped around what was inside and in seconds they set to removing his grin each tomato they threw wasnt removed from the tin, it was a shocking amount to take on the chin, on the shin, on the shoulder, the temple, the teeth as the cans hammered hard he collapsed in a heap and the old boys they cheered with each thud on his flesh and the tins they piled up untill poor Keith was dead!. When the next open Mic came their was no Keith the light rained the old boys felt great like theyd banished a migraine and more nervouse the poets seemed to raise up their standards, their poems were good at least the best that theyd managed with the knive almost finnished a new knave adventures to read her first piece about senille dementia as she stumbled her way on her thoughts of her dad the old boys just gasped.. it was nearly as bad, yeah it was better more honest but the mess was all led by the rhyme trying to cram in a metaphor they rushed for their tins they threw double hard and they cheered as they sprayed bits of brain on the bar. The following day they stood at her funeral one of them read the piece was quite beautiful and in the sunlight it seemed right to be passing this judgement I mean who best to shield words than those longest encumbered theyd pull out the weeds stop new ones from sowing, yes poetrys a standard in need of upholding. So every month they held tins throughout everyones verse and they pelted each poet whos poems the worst and with those that went on facing death on the mic.. twenty poets became twelve, became eight, became five. As the numbers seemed dwindled no newbies to bludgeon the old boys in time were to turn on each other. One night an old boy he stalled he screwed up a stanser before he could argue the them him the cans and one evening as one went into his kitchen he was greeted with the words.. James your work has been slipping it was the universal truth one was always judged worse no matter how hard they strived the old boy started dropping like flies. Another one dead, another one dead another another by cans to the head unroll one month there was just one poet left and the quality was high from start through to Finnish but the open Mic lasted just a handfull of minutes and that poet was grinning he had no weight of this murder of the blood on his hands he thought Ill go a stage further, I must Finnish this off this great work we begun. Why have all of these poems when you only need one! Yeah one single poem thats it thats the answer there no way anything could lower that standard and he when home in a frenzy he laughed all demented he burned every piece the purge was intensive he went to a mirror and standing there pensive he brained himself hard till his face was indented and that...was well that!. Poetry was safe and removed from all failings and lofty and great and lonely and empty and lacking in meaning removed from the sinners just to rot on the celing and I wonder sometimes if thats what their craving when I see iner-poets obsessed with this slating.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Dec 2014 19:53:36 +0000