Canzonet

Solipsistic Soliloquy

It seems that I will always be

A solipsistic soliloquy.

Rhyming verse forms an empty cage

That fills the lines of this vapid page;

And if at times this may seem terse,

Remember that I'm simply verse.

Freud would have that I should beget

As an oedipal canzonet;

But in reality, as you will see

I’m just a narcissistic verse of me.

I've mentioned that I'll try to avoid making this a dumping ground for my poetry. For a start, most (read: all) of it is complete and utter rubbish. Don't believe anyone that tries to tell you that all poetry contains inherent meaning; frankly - it doesn't. A lot of poetry comes about out from complete nonsense, a sudden desire to write something, and an enjoyment of how words fit together. Everything I've posted to date falls firmly into this category.

However it's equally true that poetry can contain true, and personal, meaning. It's for this reason that I hesitate to post anything that could be considered serious. Let alone allowing myriad (and by myriad, I mean all of five) readers into the inner workings of my psyche, but let's face it here: bleeding heart poetry tends to be bloody awful. So, I'll end this blog with a few unconnected stanzas that I came across while reading my old writing. Enjoy derisively.

"It rolls on towards the hills in the fashion of a drunk

Returning home with those first few rays of dawn;

Covered in the stench of last-night’s bile

Which Bundaberg’s finest tends to spawn."

"Dull insomniac esoterics
Write in candlelit furies,
Their own ecstatic revelations;
That don’t make a single iota of reason."

"Poisoned ivy across the vine:
Know what’s good
And what’s malign;
These loves that stars entangled entwine
And twixt at last, they share divine."

And my personal favourite:

"I’m looking for something to write

About what I’m not quite sure,

But this is certainly very light.

I won’t even save this idiotic drivel

About my chair – I still can only swivel."