Smug.

[agoodwinsmith]

I've been transferring files of my writing from obscure places to my new thumb drive.  I know it is more fashionable to call them zip drives or flash drives, but I find thumb drive very appealling.

I was rereading some of my poems and hey - I'm good.  I had forgotten this feeling.  I am just posting one of them here because it still feels a little risky, but this one is the least personally revealing.  Also, I am aware that it is flawed, but I think the poet's obliviousness to that is part of the fun, sort of like Marty Feldman's hump.

When Sonnets Were Assigned We All Wept

Oh God!  I cannot write this thing; or think

In lines of meters more than four; I’m doomed.

Mon Dieu!  I know this sucker’s gonna stink,

With mangled feet and meaning’s bleat subsumed.

 

Alas, alack, and all that stuff, today

We ape the mistress penned by ancient fad,

This jacket straight’s a rotten lewd display;

Of talent’s dazzling portrait spoofed unclad.

 

The naked truth before me, this? A tart

Of lousy thought and art, with vulgar bare

Unblushing parts, and money-grubbing heart?

A sordid burlesque rude with shameless stare!

 

If future fame relies on nothing more,

I close my eyes and snivel, “Merde, alors.”