Our very first entry was published in the Spectator on 19.11.16. Feast your aching peelers on this lovely:-
"Poem in Which I Practice Happiness" by Joe Dunthorne
"I love pigeons
even when their claws are stumps
and they walk as though in heels.
I love guinea pigs
for the idea they are in some way
a pig. Their heartbeats make their bodies
vibrate. I like to pretend
to answer them. Whom may I say is speaking?
I love football. More people love football
than love social justice
but that doesn't mean football
isn't brilliant. Whenever I head the ball
I feel a poem evaporate.
I hate the bit of the poem
where you're obliged
to hate something.
I love the piano.
I love true crime.
I love the sun
when it arrives
like a tray
of drinks."
The most amusing - or perhaps distressing - line in this paradigm of cultural degeneracy has to be "whenever I head the ball/ I feel a poem evaporate." For my part, I am quite certain that, whenever Mr Dunthorne favours a gathering of hipsters with his latest offering, a fairy has an embolism.
The Vogons have got some serious competition.
ReplyDeleteOh freddled gruntbuggly,
DeleteThy micturitions are to me,
As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles,
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer. [drowned out by moaning and screaming]
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and slipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turling dromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't.