Perhaps [better/more experienced/more egomaniacal] writers aren't as afflicted by self-doubt. Perhaps they complete a piece, exclaim, "Aw, yeah! EAT IT, entire canon of Western literature!", then take an invigorating dip in a wading pool full of advance money.
As opposed to me. When I finish writing something, my first instinct is generally to print it out on heavyweight, 100% cotton bond paper... because that'll produce the biggest flames when I set the thing ablaze.
Every few years, however, I amaze myself by actually LIKING a recently-completed work. Occasionally, it's a technical memo (I laughed! I cried! I did not require a static IP address and thus skipped to step 9-C as directed!). If I'm lucky, it's something not quite as dry.
If it's the following poem, it's actually, um, rather damp.
As opposed to me. When I finish writing something, my first instinct is generally to print it out on heavyweight, 100% cotton bond paper... because that'll produce the biggest flames when I set the thing ablaze.
Every few years, however, I amaze myself by actually LIKING a recently-completed work. Occasionally, it's a technical memo (I laughed! I cried! I did not require a static IP address and thus skipped to step 9-C as directed!). If I'm lucky, it's something not quite as dry.
If it's the following poem, it's actually, um, rather damp.
This was written a few summers ago. I was going for e.e. cummings' "i like my body when it is with your" crossed with a painfully earnest note scrawled on looseleaf and poked in your crush's locker on the last day of school. And - holy flock of Christ! - I GOT something like that.
Hope you enjoy. And if you do, show your appreciation karmically. The next time you see your Special Guy/Gal sitting on the sofa, looking singularly bored with "Hitler's Wackiest Bloopers", slither into their lap and produce a little not-for-broadcast-television entertainment, why don'tcha?
"Islamorada"
float on little lust waves
on a crackle plasma sea
sweet jelly sting enveloping
rock and shell and salt-glazed skin
wet and thrill spark through me 'til
i go crashing 'cross the beach
like tidal force to you of course
i'm drawn and i'm your souvenir
my want in you like sand in shoe
my tongue like taffy on your teeth
Hope you enjoy. And if you do, show your appreciation karmically. The next time you see your Special Guy/Gal sitting on the sofa, looking singularly bored with "Hitler's Wackiest Bloopers", slither into their lap and produce a little not-for-broadcast-television entertainment, why don'tcha?
"Islamorada"
float on little lust waves
on a crackle plasma sea
sweet jelly sting enveloping
rock and shell and salt-glazed skin
wet and thrill spark through me 'til
i go crashing 'cross the beach
like tidal force to you of course
i'm drawn and i'm your souvenir
my want in you like sand in shoe
my tongue like taffy on your teeth
Labels: Bad Poetry, The Compleat Thumbscrew
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Priscilla Pseudonym, at 4/01/2007 10:50 PM 
No way "bad poetry" label applies here! Remove it!