“Flyting or fliting is a contest consisting of the exchange of insults between two parties, often conducted in verse.”-Wikipedia contributors, “Flyting,” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Flyting&oldid=1066666401 (accessed May 17, 2022).
Hipshitical and batshittery, complete
coprolite words, drop like poop
from a mouth, a sewer of deceit,
ears, a sonar for the snoop.
You're wealthy, you're pale
are you eunuch or male?
A coward, a fool, a wannabe rebel
rolled up fetal with balls like a pebble.
Forever on holiday from morals
a dog's breakfast of contradiction
incubator of plots and quarrels
your presence a plague, an affliction.
Your face frozen in a sneer,
with teeth, a chain of half-built houses
in a heart of darkness, an evil frontier
with witches and cannibals for spouses.
Never tried insult verse before. It’s not good at all. But, it is kind of fun to make the attempt.
When it's over, I want to
say: all my life
I was a bride married to
I was the bridegroom,
taking the world into my
—Mary Oliver, "When Death Comes"
Instructions for living a life:
Tell about it.
–Mary Oliver, “Sometimes”
Carefully discern the cost and the calling.
Then, commit for life, if you are able.
If you can't be X all day, much less for life,
try being X for the next second, minute, or hour.
Failure will never stand in your way,
unless you fail to learn, the true failure.
What you say and do, it matters.
How you survive, it matters.
You don't have to screw people
to live, as long as living is enough.
Make the effort, focus, watch your mind.
For your mind, your ideas about the world
are like trying to capture being alive
with a camera, a microphone, or a word.
It makes objects of moments. Moments
are life, succulent and raw, a ripe fruit
better tasted and felt than captured and told.
Reach for grace, weave it through your life
and the lives of others, in community. Together,
we can build a life of shared experience,
of deep connection and intimacy. Beauty
is everywhere, we only need to strive to see
through our own senses and those of others
to dip into the richness of our lived experience.
Knowing, ain't doing, my friends. I know enough,
to write this, but I also know that I am too frequently
sucking on the stone pit, the abstraction better
thrown away that prevents us from eating good fruit.
And all fruit is best, when it is shared with love.
Start with a basic principle:
yauh peng, yauh leng - in English,
inexpensive and beautiful. Empty,
alone, a blank canvas five inches
across, bounded by ears, separate
yet susceptible, social mind virus.
Catastrophe has already happened,
from one view. Another angle, sees
happiness, created whole-cloth out
of disposition and a clean heart.
Sense, nonsense and in between, a line
can't be right, left and/or wrong.
Layers, subcultures of lost, brittle
men coalesce into reply guys, wienie
wagers, and boojeymean lodged in the
Callipygian cheeks of society, coprolite,
surplus to requirements, in places
normalized for deficits of wonder.
Covering what stinks, habitual
evidence of a lunch, long past
Nature's Shitness Protection Program
revealing God in what she's not,
and what she is may be just another
evaporated, dehydrated, Stone being.
An unmagicked, McJunk world, three ring
shit show, exponential, terrible,
uncapable of bearing the intimacy of
scrutiny. Changez vos amis, but there
can be no separate survival or
adjusted destinies. Truth comes last.
Not all are masterpieces, but there are some gems here.
Out in the cow field of life,
there's lot of poop to be found.
Some is fresh. Some is wet.
Some is old. Some is round.
Even if you catalog them all,
and describe every detail.
The main thing is knowing,
how not to step in one.
living in the doom, catastrophe
paranoia of the psychoentirety,
a trash fire, landscape lighting
florescent, sick room architectures
broadcasting dead news to unwitting
recipients, dream/nightmare remnants,
black anxiegenic chemistries awaiting,
reagents and catalysts, parlor
epidemiologists and physicians,
a confederacy of a billion clowns,
narcissists, fascists and a mule
turning paranoia into public policy
mystics of the stream, waterflesh
bubbling personal microculture,
the best swims between the net,
fishing, the pitiless puta, thrusts
his smooth skinned erection towards
the wild, the permaweird, memory-wired,
on the float, uplifting imaginary vortex,
against a loser's catalog: black jerseys,
bum guns, and jack boots - stomping
an exogenous shock, giving birth to a thin,
grim newness, destined for the trash of civilizations