The answers can be found here.
In the tradition of R. Kelly, I leave you with this cliffhanger. Did I end up an insane person dreaming of flying and shit? Who knows. And anyway who has time to reflect on their days as a poetry genius when the world is on a collision course toward APOCALYPSE. I will now be channeling all of my creative brilliance into developing helpful apocalypse strategies. No one can ever say I am not a generous person.
Can we get real for a second? Can you handle it? Great. I feel like maybe I was psychic when I wrote this. How else can you explain how its message of world peace, tolerance and loving one another-ness rings so true in these trying times? Not sure if this is from my pre-goth period or the result of smoking too much hash, either way, achingly beautiful right? Today I have a slightly different approach for conquering the world’s problems: I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit, it’s the only way to be sure.
This one is a bit hard to read. Like I mean because it is old and written in pencil. Poetry-wise it’s like butter on toast. Old toast though. It’s there and you’re hungry so you kind of want to eat it but know it’s going to be unpleasant. Perhaps it’s the mention of saliva. Or the collision of sex with death. Way to go teenage boys, your useless, sloppy fumbles turned making out into a horror show. Nah, just kidding, my brain did that. My stupid, evil brain. Your making out was merely sub-standard.
This one is very easy to interpret. Unfortunately I know exactly what I was talking about. ‘Scornful crowd’: the audience that heckled my lip-synched Siouxsie and the Banshees performance. ‘I turned it over and over in my trembling hands’: the letter that told me I didn’t get into a creative writing program. That’s right, I said did NOT. Crazy, right? ‘New world gradually dissolved’: I found out one of my high school crushes broke up with his girlfriend to date me only to find out shortly after that he changed his mind. I may or may not have vomited out of retroactive embarrassment while writing this. Now you know 16 year old me. FUCK YOU.
You fucking posers! I didn’t write that, Trent Reznor did. This is funny for two reasons, 1) I totally thought Pretty Hate Machine was amazing in high school, 2) these song lyrics are way more embarrassing than my goth poetry. Come on! Pathetic crying-child-inside whining is way more vomit-inducing than insecure ramblings about vampires and insanity. And, dudes, I was a teenager. He was a man. Well as much of a man as someone this whiny can be. AKA not very.
Thank god I didn’t form any bands at the same time that I wrote this poem. They would have had the worst, most convoluted, gayest, 90sish names in history. This title needs to be murdered. But check it out, in this one I enter someone else’s brain! Fuck yeah! I think this is when I started to win the gothic battle. And by win I mean die and become some kind of weird monster that haunts the dreams of dissatisfied teenage girls and makes them express their dissatisfaction by wearing clothes that are at once slutty and funereal. Sure you might have been able to get your hand under my black mini-skirt but was it worth the trauma of dealing with my malfunctioning brain? Yes fagatron, it was.
Dear True Blood, face! I had this vampire shit nailed back in 1990. Dear Anne Rice, not face. The reading of your books may have pre-dated this poem.
This also reminds me of a bulletin board I once had on which I pinned a list of words I liked and planned to integrate into my poetry. ‘Domain’ was definitely one of them. You can’t deny, that’s a shit hot word.
Okay so that witchcraft stuff was intense, right? Let’s take it down a bit with this poem. Dudes, I say my world can be gold all I need is some jerk to let me cry on his shoulder. That’s totally positive and not at all misguided. I totally remember thinking all my craziness would go away if A) I found love or B) I got turned into a vampire. Wrong! At least about that love crap. Ah, to be 31 again. JK! To be 15 again.
This is completely retarded. It’s from my witchcraft period. Not a poem but quite insane nonetheless. I spent many days transcribing spells from books I had borrowed from the library. Did they have photocopiers? Obviously. Did I think a photocopied version was appropriate? Obviously not. Seriously, it goes on for page after ridiculous page. I was dedicated, just like Kevin Spacey in Seven. And just like Lars Von Trier I’m giving you a glimpse into my demented brain. Although I require less visuals of Willem Dafoe’s balls to do it.
