A depressed being on the verge of suicide once wrote a poem about its life and discovered it had penned a masterpiece. It decided to sell the poem to a wandering poet on the internet, before pulling the plug on itself. So with its last ten rupees it went to a cybercafé and trawled the net for an hour. Unfortunately after one soul searing hour it chanced upon Shout. It was tempted to kill itself right then for this final failure. But then seeing as it was that Fate had rebuffed even this last attempt at a dignified exit, its curiosity overtook it and it decided to pursue this mad, last fling of a thought.
It thought to itself in an elaborately constructed ponder, “It really isn’t tough to find a poet these days, given high speed broadband connectivity and billions of eager minds across the globe that are absolutely straining to express their unique creative outpourings. And yet in my final hour this is what I chance upon? Seeing as I have found something that so defiantly and vehemently refuses to adhere to any remote connotation of ‘poetry’ or ‘prose’, there must be something in this singularly distressing misuse of free web publishing. Perhaps this is my chance to improve the quality of something in this world. The Lord be praised! I have found a purpose!!!” And with this last thought resounding like twenty million gongs in the Tibetan valley, it approached me, not without some disdain.
To cut the long of it much shorter it convinced me to publish its poem.
So here it is. It by IT. I, humbly, am just the instrument, one post richer for a sorry It’s pointless poetic ponderings within self conscious walls. [this last illustrious phrase was penned by It, as a befitting foreword].
And now, Shout Presents…
Am I a blackhole?
This silence sucks.
apt as a flaming verb stuck in the sphincter
Nowhere to go but an endless fucking shit hole, up or down.
[this last is for the author of this site, as thanks – for the space & the perspective] – signed, It.