11 August 2003

Can I go to university now please?

An assembly of thoughts and feelings
a poem, just for me,
to read, recite and analyze
so I would understand.

"Seamus Heaney was born on April 13, 1939 the eldest of nine children, to Margret and Patrick Heaney, at the family farm, Mossbawn, about 30 miles northwest of Belfast in County Derry."

A family of farmers.

But he didn't want to be a farmer, like so many Heaney's before him, he wanted to be a writer. So he rebelled and wrote.
I find myself not caring.
In his writing he is constantly mourning his rebellion.
He talks and talks
about his father working the land,
toiling away, day after day,
with his own two hands.

Nature, purple staining blackberries and clods of frog-spawn,
with such joy and exuberance
but for some reason he always comes back to the theme of decay.
That guy was morbid.
So, everything dies. Thanks for the tip, I'll bear it in mind,
Can I go back to my Kerouc now please?

The loss of youth and innocence
Another thing to mourn.
Poor, Poor, Heaney, he grew up too soon.
I couldn’t wait to grow up
I hated being a child
The taunts
The stones
The feelings of worthlessness
Of not being able to fit in no matter how hard you tried.
Not that a lot has changed
But at least now I have apathy.

Who sets out these syllabi? I want something interesting, I want something to get lost within.
You'd think they'd make AS a little more involving...
but oh no, I get William Shakespeare and Seamus fuckin' Heaney.
A dead guy with a hard-on for dramatic irony and Mr Morbid, nature-loving fuck.

Oh yeah, William Shakespeare,
Like a dead grandfather that keeps coming back
Anytime you even think about approaching literary education.
I’m sick of blank verse and Rhyming couplets
Oh yes, and Iam-Bic Pen-Tam-Eter.
It’s only a matter of time before we have the proof that you didn’t even write any of your major works
That you stole them off a much more talented individual
Who no doubt died alone and of much ill health.

Can I go to university now please?

Do I really have to repeat this process all over again?

I'm ready now!

I don't care if I only have one feeble A-level and two miserable failures
light the blue touch paper and Retire.

Calm yourself, Mr Cheshire,
and take your seat.

I'll wait, I'll be calm, I'll jump through your little hoops.
But after classes are done, I'll be there, copy of naked lunch in hand, wild eyed and
dangerous, roaming the streets with a loaded intellect, ready.

I really should grow up.

Anarchy is bullshit posteuring, sick of social commentry, I want something new.
What else is there?
Shit and nothingness.
Oooh, existential angst. tired and dull. What else?
been there, done that, it's all the same, what's the point...
Oooh, existential angst. Dammit, going around in circles. Need to focus. How did this start?
Nevermind, gotta focus.
How am I supposed to be intellectual with such a short attention span? If only I was Russian...
Shit, an enigmatic persona can't help you now
not in these post-modern times.

Hmmmm.... Post-modernism....
That's it!
Write a bunch of meaningless crap, call it post-modern, sell it for thousands.
Nobody will know the difference.
Nobody even knows what the difference is...

What is this, poetry or prose?
Ooooh, meta-levels.

I should write a novel
should write a screenplay
write newspaper headlines.

I wish I had a deity, it would make things so much simpler.

William Burroughs was “the greatest literary conman of our times.”™
His corpse should be on display in the Tate.
An oozing bag of bodily fluids and drain cleaner, H and Amphetamine.

Can't end a piece on a grandiose statement like that.... can you? Surely you must elucidate...

I need to lie down....

© Adam Cheshire, 2001