Writing poetry in coffeeshops


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Jul 1, 2006
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Getting Shot on a Beautiful Sunny Day
A Poem By Wolf Larsen

A cook took his brains out of his head and served it as an abstract painting to the restaurant’s diners, once they ate the abstract paintings the diners in the restaurant turned into steel mills making love to your sister, this is why you live in Brazil, then the moon split in half and a rush of orgies oozed and fell out of the moon and now the entire world is a mental ward, then your doorbell rang and a nuclear bomb walked through your door and so now you’re crawling through the 19th century, or a symphony was creating flying saucers, all the flying saucers are replicas of the Eiffel Tower sitting in class with you because suddenly you’re in fifth grade again, a giraffe eats all the streets in Brazil, Brazil is an ocean is a vertical song and so the poem breeds with a mass of wars rushing out of my pen, then she kissed you and that is why the cook served you his brains for dinner
Copyright 2005 by Wolf Larsen
(First published in Offerta Speciale literary magazine, Italy)

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Wolf Larson
Do you mind some constructive criticism? Don't write poetry when you're drunk . . . or stoned. It doesn't work. Am I being harsh? Yes. But I'm also being honest. You don't want me to be patronizing, right?

I'll admit, it might be over my head. But I think . . . "good" poetry should touch the soul . . . of anyone who reads it. You missed the mark.

It doesn't make it "bad". I'll read it again. I "might" get it later. I doubt it. But I'll try.

Sorry. ;)