April Littrell

February 7, 2022

Amateur poetry club

How are you? Hope you're well. The birds are singing. War's a-brewing. Hell on earth tastes like empty days of laze laced with strawberry rhubarb beer and the unscented waft of no one near you across the table, or in the bed, only awful far-ness filled with a nose of naughty daytime explorations of the uninterpreted self.

I wrote a poem last Sunday and recorded a reading of it. Blasted the bitch with unrelenting edits only to realize it's a waste to want well-meaning art to have any modicum of perfection. So fuck it. Wrote another poem today, a week from the last. Recorded it with the unharmonious hurling of laundry in the background. Uploaded to the tube. It's unrefined, and it's mildly glorious. Forcing fewer internal outcries of unrequited care. It's writing for no one's sake. It's non-fundamental narcissism—the kind that comes in a can these days.

Here's a lopsided load of liminal observations one afternoon in the park across the street.

And here's a maddening maelstrom of mind puke from lack of sunlight. It's an elegy to the happy-go-fucky Sunday I could have had, but instead chose to sit inside my own mind and observe the park from the caddy-corner cave orifice at the end of the endless hallway of my lavishly barren boudoir.

Thanks for indulging in this interruptive, unscrupulous, and inexplicably loquacious liquid-spill of word meal. March on. Munch on some vitamin D. Dunk yourself ultraviolet. Go play with the bees.