"Ladies and gentlemen! You've read about it in the newspapers! Now, shudder as you observe, BEFORE YOUR VERY EYES, that most rare and tragic of nature's mistakes! I give you ... the average man!
Physically unremarkable, it has instead a deformed set of values. Notice the hideously bloated sense of humanity's importance. The club-footed social conscience and the withered optimism.
It's certainly not for the squeamish, is it?
Most repulsive of all are its frail and useless notions of order and sanity. If too much weight is placed upon them, they snap.
How does it live, I hear you ask? How does this poor, pathetic specimen survive in today's harsh and irrational world? The sad answer is 'not very well.'
Faced with the inescapable fact that human existence is mad, random and pointless, one in eight of them crack up and go stark slavering buggo! Who can blame them? In a world as psychotic as this, any other response would be crazy!"

At high noon
or in the dark moonless night there is a light.
Can you see it?
And, by the way, who are you?

A Poetry Manifesto (Revision 6-19-03)
~JaneythePoet~





A decade of writing poetry
has revealed to me-- the bare necessity
of orgasmic invocations in this world of feral distortions,
though some jizz has been more tantric than others.

I started fondling paper
soon after my first red wave. Breathing hard in rhyme,
my shapeless form had little sense of undulation.
Since I was 12 years old,
I’ve stripped for boys and girls, mentors and strangers—
yearning for intimacy. I’ve creamed all over my friends faces;
dripped warmly on my English Teachers desks. And for what?
The senseless smoke of a tingling after-poem cigarette
or the silence of disinterest or dissatisfaction,
broken by a few clap-like snaps?

Knowing there had to be more, I began to trace the sensual revelries
of a few American nymphs, admiring their poise
like an adolescent probing the pages of their first magazine
bulging with pornographic contours.
Entranced, I decided I would flirt with a couple more.
So as I got older, I fingered more poetry.
(As I got a stronger grip on the burden of dicks) my breath
grew into fine moans with a cliché voice in pseudo-syncopation
that caressed the frame of kinky eccentricity. But now,
with my experimentation— mere ivory stains on lavender sheets,
I (forever and still) have so much more to learn
from the swingers and porn-stars and pimps of poetic vulgarity.
Or do I?

For no one really cares if a poet kisses air in the nude or in a mask,
as long as the poem strokes their imagination or they can see
the shade of the poets lips stick like fog in front of them.
Poetry just doesn't seem alluring enough anymore
compared to the political masturbation and bisexual economics
that tantalize the media and street corners.
No one begs "Rape Me" with hallucinatory images
or "Release Me" from comprehensible diversions (as if they exist).
No one touch can coax all the clits and nuts of the world
into pulsating erratically. No one thrust can prod
ecstatic squeals or whimpers from the mouths of the masses.

Rarely, do these lickerish freaks realize just how much
a poet exposes when their ear is licked with the poets tongue
and their cheeks pecked with rose words
or their nipples hardened by the smooth twitch of a poets fingertips.
Yet this is the ultimate fantasy of all poets—to pleasure all
with a chemical reaction, like chocolate alcohol and ecstasy,
but is it only a fantasy? Is there a such thing as irresistable
Carey Grant~Rico Suave~Aphrodite Poetry?
Or would the world crumble under such gushing unity?
Maybe, but that is too perfect a risk to ponder
in the present disenchantment of reality.

Therefor, the role of poetry is not to question the eros
of omniscient orgasmi-connections,
just as sex has little to do with falling or being in love.
Rather, the carnal charms of poetry
are meant to tenaciously, rigidly and sometimes primitively
mount and lay bare the body of libertine rhapsodies
in repetitive motions, with as many perspectives as the Kama-Sutra
and as many lovers as Batman and Robin.

It’s one of those common-sense things you’re taught
even before you learn the difference between boys and girls
(between concrete and abstract):
It’s not whether you win or lose. It’s how you fuck the referee
while your coaches are signing autographs to virgins and widows.

…In other words, shed the white robe.
Grope your heroes with one hand. Let your senses stress the surface
of (the voyeurs and masochists, imagined or true—under you)
pores and secret freckles. Drip across their length with no thought,
no need for rubbers or lube. Swell your moistened lips.
Stroke
color and crave the deeper coves of those who are not you.
Pump rag dolls and guns in puddles, don’t pop. Ebbing, don’t stop.
Trembling, you’re spasmodic until they crumple and arch, then recoil
-Wait-
Right there, then move on (and up too)! Banging over and over,
bang and turn over, ripping and massaging their fuzzy heads
with your tongues. Poked out, thrusting in, rotate tingling
-Again-
Then come, flooding and tie them in silk,
so they know when to close their eyes and return to poetic celibacy
until next time, when their urges for your erotica, intense and alive,
begin to overwhelm them again.

Sounds like a hell-of-a-lot more fun than waking up alone
in a puddle of your own juices
because you don't know what erogenous rites are, doesn't it?

Yes,
Poetic oppression has always been and always will be taboo
in the realm of idyllic cocks and muses,
so throw away that damn dildo-- keeping you
from invocating deviant solicitations, and embody the exotic fetish
that is Modern Poetry.
For the infinitesimal possibility of any poet acheiving
their ultimate fantasy can never be realized without You!

--Janey The Poet--