Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Even though there is nobody here, I'm going to tell a story.

It's about why poets are cursed and blessed and damned.

The story starts with Blake, Byron and Jim Morrison

hunkered down in a seedy hotel with one lonely Remmington typewriter.

The inevitable fights break out, especially after the absinthe

As Byron pisses into a Grecian Urn, Morrison tries to drown himself in the ice bucket

and Blake is fighting Tigers in the bed. Somebody calls room service.

The trouble is that room service doesn't supply girls or pills or valet egos.

The plot thickens as Blake produces a laptop that he calls Sherlock Holmes.

The little PC is obviously on cocaine. It keeps going automatically to paranoia-porn sites.

Morrison howls and reaches for his member. "This is true poetry," he says.

Byron rolls his eyes and sighs. "Oh, Jim, you are such a beast."

I can't remember the end of this story.

Can anybody help me out?

Hell, I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, unless
I unleash my heretofore unsuspected super powers....

The main thing to keep in mind here is the poet's assured fate....
cursed and blessed and damned.... rather crappy odds that should come as no surprise by now...

I believe it ends with Blake sighing resignedly: "I wish that bastard Ginsberg would quit following me..."

Canticle for Liebowitz
the most interesting poet I have found in a work of fiction

after the fire next time how much of the poetry will be left, will there be monks transcribing bits and pieces of early twenty first century literature

your story ends with a bang not a whimper

Emily Dickinson walks in and everybody has to zip up.


--Z