1stFu Words
Words.
Fucking words.
An imaginary friend had to go & remind me about words.
Once upon a time there was something with words.
Something about osmosis.
Catharsis.
Transfusions.
Transmutations.
Three little reds & a big bad witch.
Blah blah blah. Whatever.
Fucktard.
What did words ever get me but more words?
As if there’s some message only I can preach.
As if there’s some sermon that’s never been preached.
As if words could save a life.
Maybe if there were a new, never-before read dictionary full of never-before written words.
Maybe if there were some new language invented for pointy-headed readers who would take those brand-new words and voila, save the world & win the zombie Apocalypse.
Maybe then.
Even then I don’t know if I could be convinced of a better use for words than folding book pages into origami boats and paper lanterns.
Let them float.
Let them burn.
Why not burn books.
Warmth is a worthy result.
Maybe, it would be better to be warm & warn the world about words instead of writing more.
If faced with freezing to death and building a bonfire with 25 signed copies of the first run of Lady Chatterly’s Lover- the lady dies before I do.
Granted, I go before the Brother’s Grimm.
Those angsty-pangsty teenaged girls who read until 3am & fall asleep drooling their pretty little vacant love dreams into the pages of their sex-riddled library findings should know- even if prince charming shows, he’s probably bisexual. Or fucking her best friend. Or has a secret coke addiction.
And even if he does start out perfect & gives her the chance to wear the most beautiful princess wedding dress & he spins her around the dance floor at the reception until she’s dizzy & a little sick & oh, my, God, he’s such a dream- he’s going to get a beer gut eventually & spend way too much time in the garage painting valve covers.
He’s going to spend too much money buying crap on ebay.
And all because words made her think endings are really beginnings or cliffhangers for the sequel.
Tell those hope riddled poets it only feels like therapy.
Maybe every word that’s ever needed to be written has already been written.
Maybe the world of readers would be better off to fight Alzheimers with Sudoku.
I know I was a nicer person before those devil boys stoned Piggy.
Back before Poe told me about assholes who brick-walled cats in basements.
Back in the once upon a time when books were all Richard Scarry raccoons riding on firetrucks, pointing at the word fire hydrant. Back when it seemed as if I’d been handed the keys to a kingdom.
And then something happened with an anticlimax. Someone told me not to pay attention to the man behind the curtain & the literary world became a 500 lb gorilla.
Someone told me Dr. Seuss had an affair with his best friend’s wife until his own wife took too many barbiturates on purpose & there was an avalanche on my ability to suspend reality. The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue. Turns out The Lorax was an asshole.
I’m Heckedy Peg, I lost my leg.
Something about the semantic similarity between words and numbers.
Big zero.
How fast could I type to three?
Something about binary code.
SOM. WRU. RU. SYNC. ACK. EOM.
Then text messages started and the voices stopped and my eyeballs fell into my eardrums.
WTF
FML
I’m Gretyl Grimm and Hansel is dead.
Once upon a time I attended no one’s graduation, uninvited, to listen to Maya Angelou speak about not speaking. I could’ve read about it but it wouldn’t have been the same.
Because some fucker told me a little secret about misplaced modifiers.
Someone else decided to set it to music.
And several things oxymoronic occurred.
Then something about context clues just would not shut the fuck up and no one typed glorious things like yammering shitstick and I couldn’t think through all the undelivered messages.
I couldn’t decide if I should speak or read or write or listen or explore the palindrome. Yo, Banana boy.
The sestina. Fuck that.
The gawdawful haiku.
The essay, the novel, the paragraph, the sentence.
The asterisk, the ampersand, the there, their, they’re and the its it’s, whom.
I wrote it down, cut it apart, wrote it backward, forward, down the spiral staircase and up your mother’s saintly colon.
I did it dressed, half-dressed, buck-ass naked and full-on drag queen.
I did it eating a bologna sandwich.
But I never wrote one God damned new thing.
How goose would a blue smell?
Salad. Truffle. Katana. Hard hat. Basket, Waffle. Globe. France.
Screw French too.
Maybe the world needs me to type the words yammering shitstick.
It’s not the language or the medium or the format or the fucking words that will change the world, Mr.
It’s getting it all in the right fucking order.
Words.
Fucking words.
An imaginary friend had to go & remind me about words.
Once upon a time there was something with words.
Something about osmosis.
Catharsis.
Transfusions.
Transmutations.
Three little reds & a big bad witch.
Blah blah blah. Whatever.
Fucktard.
What did words ever get me but more words?
As if there’s some message only I can preach.
As if there’s some sermon that’s never been preached.
As if words could save a life.
Maybe if there were a new, never-before read dictionary full of never-before written words.
Maybe if there were some new language invented for pointy-headed readers who would take those brand-new words and voila, save the world & win the zombie Apocalypse.
Maybe then.
Even then I don’t know if I could be convinced of a better use for words than folding book pages into origami boats and paper lanterns.
Let them float.
Let them burn.
Why not burn books.
Warmth is a worthy result.
Maybe, it would be better to be warm & warn the world about words instead of writing more.
If faced with freezing to death and building a bonfire with 25 signed copies of the first run of Lady Chatterly’s Lover- the lady dies before I do.
Granted, I go before the Brother’s Grimm.
Those angsty-pangsty teenaged girls who read until 3am & fall asleep drooling their pretty little vacant love dreams into the pages of their sex-riddled library findings should know- even if prince charming shows, he’s probably bisexual. Or fucking her best friend. Or has a secret coke addiction.
And even if he does start out perfect & gives her the chance to wear the most beautiful princess wedding dress & he spins her around the dance floor at the reception until she’s dizzy & a little sick & oh, my, God, he’s such a dream- he’s going to get a beer gut eventually & spend way too much time in the garage painting valve covers.
He’s going to spend too much money buying crap on ebay.
And all because words made her think endings are really beginnings or cliffhangers for the sequel.
Tell those hope riddled poets it only feels like therapy.
Maybe every word that’s ever needed to be written has already been written.
Maybe the world of readers would be better off to fight Alzheimers with Sudoku.
I know I was a nicer person before those devil boys stoned Piggy.
Back before Poe told me about assholes who brick-walled cats in basements.
Back in the once upon a time when books were all Richard Scarry raccoons riding on firetrucks, pointing at the word fire hydrant. Back when it seemed as if I’d been handed the keys to a kingdom.
And then something happened with an anticlimax. Someone told me not to pay attention to the man behind the curtain & the literary world became a 500 lb gorilla.
Someone told me Dr. Seuss had an affair with his best friend’s wife until his own wife took too many barbiturates on purpose & there was an avalanche on my ability to suspend reality. The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue. Turns out The Lorax was an asshole.
I’m Heckedy Peg, I lost my leg.
Something about the semantic similarity between words and numbers.
Big zero.
How fast could I type to three?
Something about binary code.
SOM. WRU. RU. SYNC. ACK. EOM.
Then text messages started and the voices stopped and my eyeballs fell into my eardrums.
WTF
FML
I’m Gretyl Grimm and Hansel is dead.
Once upon a time I attended no one’s graduation, uninvited, to listen to Maya Angelou speak about not speaking. I could’ve read about it but it wouldn’t have been the same.
Because some fucker told me a little secret about misplaced modifiers.
Someone else decided to set it to music.
And several things oxymoronic occurred.
Then something about context clues just would not shut the fuck up and no one typed glorious things like yammering shitstick and I couldn’t think through all the undelivered messages.
I couldn’t decide if I should speak or read or write or listen or explore the palindrome. Yo, Banana boy.
The sestina. Fuck that.
The gawdawful haiku.
The essay, the novel, the paragraph, the sentence.
The asterisk, the ampersand, the there, their, they’re and the its it’s, whom.
I wrote it down, cut it apart, wrote it backward, forward, down the spiral staircase and up your mother’s saintly colon.
I did it dressed, half-dressed, buck-ass naked and full-on drag queen.
I did it eating a bologna sandwich.
But I never wrote one God damned new thing.
How goose would a blue smell?
Salad. Truffle. Katana. Hard hat. Basket, Waffle. Globe. France.
Screw French too.
Maybe the world needs me to type the words yammering shitstick.
It’s not the language or the medium or the format or the fucking words that will change the world, Mr.
It’s getting it all in the right fucking order.
