bad metaphor

So I mentioned earlier that I’m on the staff of a student literary mag on campus. I was a little worried when I heard that I’d be put on poetry detail – I am very, very picky about poetry and reading heaps of possibly mediocre to bad poetry failed to interest me much, well, beyond the potential fun of mercilessly bashing the really bad entries.

Okay, maybe at some point I might have been looking forward to the latter bit. I suspect that all of us, deep inside, have this seed of nastiness embedded within even the gentlest of hearts; the deep-seated desire to destroy the egos of others – the bigger, the better. It seems to matter less that you yourself are inept, incompetent, etc., as long as you surround yourself with bigger idiots and slacker-jawed yokels. This is why we have reality TV, for instance. This is why, when I was enrolled in a poetry workshop class, I attended almost every day, just to see what collosal lows this fellow poet (whom I’ll call Fred) would revert to this week.

The thing that made Fred shine in a universe of dull stars was his monstrous and largely unwarranted ego. He would blather on for twenty minutes after each poem critiqued, complaining that he didn’t quite “get” it or suggesting changes that would turn the poem into something more like what he wrote, thus the suggestions were mostly useless. As for what he wrote, it consisted entirely of “song” lyrics that brooded over his failures with the opposite sex (oh really? how shocking) and his oh-so-edgy outsiderness. His most expert masterpiece was called “Shipwrecked in the Never,” a tour-de-force of teen angst and mangled rhymes to fit non-existent rhythm. I showed it to my roomies, who are even more malicious than I, and that lovely angst-ridden message-from-the-heart gave us sufficient comic fodder for weeks.

I like reading bad poetry sometimes, but even the most maliciously sadomasochistic bitches have a limit when it comes to poetry. So I was happy when the editor-in-chief let me move over to fiction, as I have a much better time with bad fiction than with bad poetry. Mainly because all bad fiction requires at least some effort, however unapparent that may be. Bad poets seem to treat poetry as effortless and submit any verbal diarrhea that gushes out onto paper. Also, it takes less time to write bad poetry than it does to write bad fiction, hence there’s a greater volume of it.

Anyhow. I was a little wary of joining the Kiosk, because I’d formed the perception that the Kiosk was rather pretentious and prone to post-modern-wannabe, artsy-fartsy type of works. I guess it’s been like that in the past, but it seems that at least with this bunch, it’s not the case. They’re all very down to earth and acerbic and bitter-hearted when it comes to bad poetry/literature. Jack, the editor-in-chief, mentioned how he automatically rejected any poem that contained the word “soul,” and my view of him shot up astronomically afterwards.

Last night was the benefit show at the Jackpot. It was actually rather fun, even though I’d only been planning on staying out a couple of hours or so. The plans were kind of shot as Jack bought pitcher after pitcher for the magazine staff, and of course I didn’t want to be the snooty teetotaler and all…so I ended up staying for quite a long time. This guy Tim, who was also in the aforementioned poetry workshop, also had unkind memories of this Fred character, and we spent a good half hour reminiscing on his horrible poetry, like war veterans. This girl Lindsay and I talked for awhile, and made an impromptu trip to Burrito King with my friend Indie Dan. All very much more social activity than I’ve been used to lately. I’m getting kinda antisocial these days, you see. Although I’m not doing much writing lately, on account of being lazy and busy with other schoolwork and all, it’s really quite nice to be part of a literary community. Every nerd needs her niche, and I think I’ve found it.

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