I have never
Swapped Wives,
Engaged in Group Sex,
Done Something I Knew Was Wrong (Sober),
Jumped from an Aeroplane,
Got a Tattoo,
Appeared in a Pornographic Cinematic,
Shot Anyone, or
Smoked Crack.
I have Measured My Life in Jewel Cases --
Back in Black, The Wagon brought me here.
I was Born Slippy, and I passed through the Cemetery Gates
Like The Spirit of the Radio.
Seriously, William, It Was Really Nothing.
I See No Evil --
Queen Bitch, She Sells Sanctuary here,
and sings The Ballad of El Goodo with a Wildflower.
But Under Pressure, I had to Leave.
I ran over the Dead Leaves and Dirty Ground
From the Rhinocerous of Magical Colours,
And the Caterpillar from the Closets of Henry.
I lost my Camera in the Ball of Confusion,
But still reached Paridise City.
The Teenage F.B.I. -- a Teenage Riot -- was Unsatisfied.
But I Can't Hardly Wait.
Unchained, Outshined,
My Starsign will Rise,
And Sing my Lust for Life.
2 comments:
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. After two smash-hit masterpieces that rocketed El Gordo de Amore to the pinnacle of the poetry world, he has delivered a dud. In true form, he did it uniquely, eschewing sophomore slump for junior junk, but goodness how his new work reeks to high heaven.
Consider Billy Collins's verdict: "The absolute worst thing I have ever read."
Derek Walcott weighs in with: "A more perfect example of empty American poeto-colonialism may never be found."
Not to mention Jorie Graham: "It made me want to crush kittens with my cleats."
The New York Times declared, "If this doesn't banish El Gordo, so late the darling of critics, to the poetic equivalent of Siberia, this paper will cease publication."
And those are the nice ones. Suffice to say El Gordo's latest "borrows heavily" from pop song titles, throwing them together in a mish-mash of confused and meaningless juxtaposition. This -- after a short litany of cliched and banal activities the poet has never engaged in (this writer has personally witnessed El Gordo engaged in at least three of them) -- comes as a crushing, indeed enraging disappointment to those who held the poet up as a potential savior of Aerican letters.
It may be that never has a superstar gone from gasseous interstellar cloud to roaring nuclear spere to supernova to dark, insignificant, spent cinder so quickly.
Perhaps the most damning and irreversible blow came from the president himself on CBS This Morning: "I did read that, you know, and I kind of liked it. I recognized some of the songs. I don't read much poetry -- don't have the time -- but I think that might be my favorite."
You understand nothing! Nothing!! Your heart is desiccated and your mind is mush!
Here's a poem for you, Monsieur Grendel:
Violets are purple,
Bluebells are blue,
I poop in my hand,
And throw it at you!
Post a Comment