Conversation with Myself

I'm not sure this is really worth reading. Is it?

Well, how should I know? You're the one writing it.

Is this going to become a poem where you find some subtle, non- sentimental way

to pretend you haven't been devastated by love

for the ten thousandth time?

No, I am not currently in a state of devastation

but, I agree about the subtlety and sentimentality or else love poems make me sick.

Yeah, you've written some that embarrassed me later on. So angsty and full of heart-gushing sticky sweet gore.

Can you refrain from bringing those up? I thought, at the time, they were deep and extremely moving.

Yeah, you've written some pretty embarrassing shit. Deep and extremely moving. THAT, right there, should set off warning bells in your head, poem-spewer.

I think your language and attitude are very rude and VERY disrespectful.

Oh. Um. Sorry. Well, forget all that.

(awkward silence lasting approximately 10 seconds)

Okay, is this going to be one of those neurotic or sensual poems you used to write? You know, when you were fixated on the words, "thighs" and "throat"

It's EROTIC not neurotic but no, it won't. Though I thought mine were actually pretty good. I received compliments from some fine writers about them.

Compliments? (snicker) yeah, remember the guy who told you he could feel your sexuality coming out of his computer screen? I bet he wasn't wearing any pants when he made that observation.

Yeah, that was pretty gross. That's why I had a separate pseudonym for my slutty poems. I miss writing them sometimes because it's fun to be lurid and then cover it up with highbrow doilies. Then you've produced mysterious smut with an unusual aura of creative intelligence.

Or maybe you've just got stained doilies

Okay, fine. What do you suggest I write about?

Death. It's a subject of eternal fascination.

For who?

The living, of course.

That's like saying the end of the book is the best part. Why death?

Because it's the ultimate high, it's the climax of living and it's when you finally turn in your room key and get the answers you always wanted. Death.

What about living? You know, the part where you actually do stuff.

Naw. Everybody's sick of that. Boring.

How about.....dreams?

What kind of dreams?

The weird ones you have when you sleep and the ones you keep secret, like a little kid.

Maybe. It would all be in the concept and techniques used.

Isn't everything?

Pretty much. If you don't have an intelligent concept, if you have no idea how to employ literary techniques, you'll just end up writing something weak and pathetic.

Well, what about writing about the process of writing?

That sounds like a snoring manual. Will it come with a pillow?

Oh, crap. I've already done it.

I know.

I could write about human nature. I love to do that. People are fascinating.

Not really. They are more often tiresome. Most of them aren't nearly as complex as we make them out to be. In fact, most are rather simple. So, it's a limited subject. And a dangerous one, for the more simple-minded the person, the more he clings to the illusion that he is fascinatingly complex. If you dare step on a single one of his amazing mental ants, even by accident, you'll find brutality takes no intelligence at all.

Jeez. Ants. How about feelings?  A lot of poets write exclusively about these. It's nearly impossible to entirely avoid the subject.

Oh, God, no! Feelings will suck the brains out of a head faster than a duck can eat a June bug. They're volatile and very risky.

June bugs?

No. Feelings, you nitwit.

I told you once before not to speak to me that way, please. I am on opiates, damn it!

I apologise. I keep forgetting about that.

So, you're saying feelings are like, crack?

Exactly! You can become addicted to the rush they give and before you know it, you're blowing any poem that promises to deliver. Beware the emoting poet. Especially the really "nice" ones. They can be vicious and will rip out your throat with the least provocation.

Wow. I had no idea.

Ideas. Those are generally a good bet. Especially if they're thoroughly thought out and developed.

What about poems pretending to be about one thing, BUT  are really about something else altogether different?

I love those. Spoon feeding is for babies.

Speaking of babies, I better go get started.

Oh, I thought you already did.

Nope. You were sort of my pre-baby warm-up. My belly's still flat, see?

I know this doesn't make any sense at all, but I feel used.