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Living Poets Consortium

See, what I did there was change "Dead Poets Society" and made a clever title. Or, what I did there was make a useless title and shamed an entire film with my ignorance.

Ignore that then. Well, I was cleaning up after some rather nasty renovations and came upon my old briefcase. Yes, I (Adam) owned a briefcase. What possible use could I have for a briefcase? I stored my old documents in it. Damn, I should've done a VK Unit from Blade Runner. Another missed opportunity.

Anyhoo, I opened the briefcase and was surprised to find some old English papers, more specifically a collection of writing I had done in regards to "Death of a Salesman". In this group of assignments I had to write a scene for two characters that could be acted out, a collection of essays and, worst of all, a poem.



A. Fucking. Poem.

I will spare you the suspense: Its fucking awful. How bad could it be? Oh God in Heaven, you will see...

This is so fucking embarrassing -- Or it would be if I really gave a shit. Fuck me, its cringe worthy.


Poor Willy

The hands move back and forth
There were better times than these
When both Dream and Man had worth
Where Ben's "Secret" was the key

In life he was but a heel
Unbeknownst to family and friend
A mere Ghost behind the Wheel
Riding the obscured Jungle bend; 

The Jungle he could not tame
The life he could not possess
The mended stocking of shame
Were but a push to the final rest; 

He couldn't make a go of it
No Dave Singleman is he
Willy nurse's on the end of it
The last Mother he'll ever need

I mean, what the fuck. I consider myself pretty shit at most things but this is fucking schlock of the highest order. Riding the obscured Jungle bend !? What in the name of fuck does that even mean?

Here are the notes from the teacher: 
  • "Where Ben's Secret held the keys (keys rhymes better with these)
  • Your poetry is weaker than your other writing
Well lady, you are fucking correct about that. Also, the second stanza is clunky as fuck. I do like the final bit with Willy sucking off the gas line to kill himself poetrically (made it up) comparing life to death just as I had compared the old, good days to the shitty, current days. Fuck me what a mess.

I always struggled with poetry. I found it castrating in a sense. Had I been allowed to write in a free form style I might have been able to express a real thought. Instead, I copied the pompous style of the textbook and made a fucking mess of a poem. No fun. Very silly.

This was my attempt to take the assignment seriously. Big mistake. I should've taken the piss.

Looking at the teachers notes again, I don't care for the use of weaker. Did she really like the other stuff I did? I do remember her being tickled by the scene I wrote. The mind boggles, it really does.

I may post the scene next. I would love to see it put on properly. Is Robert Culp still alive? Oh that's right, he isn't.

This one is for you, good sir. 

~ Adam

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