I admire my effortless yet impossibly
belabored efforts in the prose line, and
I think we could possibly write a book
if you supply the good character. I have
a plot
but I'm afraid we can't, because united
in such acts of fervid and fecund creation
we would fall in love so fast we'd deny
we always were, and that
my friend
would spoil the fucking plot! Dead
giveaway city! How does one (or
in this case {hypothetical} two) write
(or cowrite) a goddamn book with
a riveting plot that just sums up
how beautifully flawless the story
wends while fucking it up the exact
same way for real, and get it to sell?
Notoriety, fame - let's concede - are
at least two cards in the pack we had
hopefully shuffled and cut, and dealt.
But a job like I just described, no matter
how tastefully-cooked couldn't beat
the smell
It's "fantastic, incredible, too much
so of both" - scream the jacket quotes
nope, no: nix. If we can't think up
a better plot than neither of us wants
to arc or twist, then I say the whole
damn deal has skipped out on us
- and we've only ourselves to kiss
goodbye. Better yet shake hands!
Deal's a deal, fair's fair, and nobody
understands. Why
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.
but aren't they all random?
Tuesday, December 08, 2020
Pretext glitch
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