I hate them.
I really hate them,
most of them,
most of those little magazines,
those darlings of the indie press,
5 dollar photocopies
stitched together behind someone’s bedroom door
or the backroom of a dirty floored convenience store,
always with a half dozen poems printed skewways,
and eight or ten stories
including one “penned by the editor”
and some off-colour prints of someone’s paintings
that look like cheap surrealism
spat out people who don’t need to be surreal
to showcase the few little twists
and insights which exist in their minds
when a nice landscape would probably do it,
something their grandmother even could hang up in the toilet
and meanwhile around them the phrases turn like cogwheels,
and spinning in place,
“slowly, steadily he drank”
“in the distance a dog barked”
god damn if these bad poets
really have it right
then what quiet bit of world have I been living in?
I was in a hostel sitting room once
and this french guy was explaining to a girl
over toast and boiled eggs
that he was an artist
and an actor
that he had been prolific in Paris
and now he was here
down on his money
down on his
and I felt
like getting up and yelling at him
what the fuck do you think the rest of us are?
plumbers on holidays?
the bookshelf had three copies of Marquis du Sade
for fuck sake.
art is the hobby of people with cheekbones
who are tired of having an easy time getting laid.
fuck art fuck art fuck art.
and fuck poetry.
– DS Maolalai