Failed Visionary
My attitude towards other people depends entirely
upon whether or not they give me the credit I think I deserve;
and sometimes, even when they do give me enough credit,
I still resent them – especially if they receive more credit
than I think they deserve.
Further proof that nothing is beneath me.
New column up at Artillery: Tottenham Corner.
Pass the salt… http://artillerymag.com/tottenham-corner-3/
In the latest issue of Gesture magazine:
How dark and wide and wet it was:
pungent in the morning, with steam rising from it.
I held my nose over it, breathed in deeply
and gagged.
A hole, deeper than my love,
awaited you. A shallow hole,
nonetheless.
I have spent my entire life
preparing to do something
that I am never going to do.
I thought that accumulating
all this learning and experience
might result in something: a body of work…
or a body. While neglecting to take into account
that I might actually have to do something to achieve that end.
An Acquired Taste that’s for Everybody
These two works of fine poetic literature available from Amazon, among other places:
THE INERTIA VARIATIONS
The fruit of many fruitless years. 126 eight-line poems on the subject of work-avoidance, failure and indolence:
http://www.amazon.com/Inertia-Variations-Updated-2010/dp/0971997799/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369175413&sr=1-1&keywords=inertia+variations
ANTIEPITHALAMIA & OTHER POEMS OF REGRET AND RESENTMENT
A sequence of mean-spirited love poems with particular respect paid to the institution of marriage. Dispiriting observations, felicitously expressed. A tonic to those of us who are not blissfully content in work and love.
http://www.amazon.com/Antiepithalamia-Regret-Resentment-Success-Failure/dp/0985508523/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1369176426&sr=1-1&keywords=antiepithalamia
Broke, bitter and alone.
What more could I ask for?
I have failed, at last,
beyond my wildest expectations.
I don’t understand
why I’m still not satisfied.
I am constantly confronted by other people’s works
that I could have created myself.
And I am constantly disappointed by them.
Sadly, I have to recognize them
for what they are: inferior versions
of what I could have done
if I’d been insecure enough in my abilities
to do anything.
Whenever I have such a useless day as this,
which seems to happen often,
I break it down, hour by wasted hour.
I work hard to locate the source of the problem,
and, if possible, blame it on somebody else.
John Tottenham 