On Sunday, November 19, 2023 at 2:12:24 PM UTC-5, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> No, Donkey. Your poetry really is *that* bad.
>
> At the risk of severe brain damage, let's take a look at this swill:
>
> > Opera Positions
>
> Judging from a line in the poem, the title refers to one's position in the audience for an opera; not to the blocking of the various actors/singers on the stage. Does this title have any bearing on the meaning/content of the poem at large? Of course not. It's just a line Will Donkey thought sounded good.
>
> > This is a moving studio
> > motion
> > you're independent.
>
> Ouch! My brain is already starting to hurt,.
>
> How can anyone make sense out of this non-sentence?
>
> "This is a moving studio motion; you're independent."
>
> What is a "moving studio"? and isn't the pairing of "moving" and "motion" redundant? And how does a "moving studio motion" make one "independent"?
>
> As PJR would say: Experienced readers would stop reading at this point.
>
> And they would stop. They should stop -- for the sake of their mental faculties. Unfortunately, I have committed myself to the unenviable task of examine this "unspeakable shit" (as Will Donkey's poetry has often been called), and am hereby throwing caution to the wind.
>
> > I'm holed up with Search Boy again
> > sniffing the heroine.
>
> This is a criticism I've made before (numerous times), but it bears repeating here: Will Donkey's poems bring up numerous characters out of the blue, and drop them almost immediately. It's as if Will is name-dropping -- which, in a sense, he is. However, unlike your average name-dropper, who limits himself to well known figures, Will name-drops obscure locals from the lower echelons of Gooberville where he's spent his life.
>
> This sort of thing may be interesting to the Goobers who used to hang in Will's circle ("General Plod" is always excited to point out who he knows in the Donkey's verses), but it holds no interest (or meaning) for the rest of the world.
>
> Who is "Search Boy"? Why is he called "Search Boy"? What is "Search Boy's" relationship to Will?
>
> The answer: he's just some random guy Will used to snort heroin with.
>
> [Although, since Will writes "sniffing the heroine," perhaps he and "Search Boy" were sniffing the heroine of his poem's butt. Perhaps Lady K let all of Will's friends sniff her in exchange for drugs?]
>
> > From the room
> > where Bodeen is sleeping
> > to a hundred year old
> > building downtown
> > a mathematical structure.
>
> Ouch! This non-sentence is almost as painful as the first.
>
> From a room to a hundred-year old building... a mathematical structure???
>
> Usually when one uses a "from/to" clause, they are attempting to present a range of items that share a common feature.
>
> But what sort of range is "from a room to a hundred-year old building"? "From a room to a hundred-story skyscraper" would make sense, because it progresses from a single room to a towering skyscraper full of rooms. But what is the connection between a room and a building's age?
>
> And what does "a mathematical structure" mean?
>
> Is our Donkey trying to say that the blueprints for all buildings employ math?
>
> Not only that, but our Donkey feels the need to throw in yet another meaningless character with "Bodeen." Fortunately, AAPC members know that "Bodeen" is one of the many aliases of Stinky George Sulzbach -- a booze and drug addled pissbum who has known Will for most of his life (or what passes for the same).
>
> > Jack Burlington
> > in his land of crack head hos
> > his holy mass.
>
> Four stanzas, and I'm already feeling my cognitive powers deteriorate.
>
> Will name-drops another nobody (that's three so far: Search Boy, Bodeen, and Jack Burlington) from Gooberville's slimy underbelly thirty-plus years ago.
>
> Apparently Jack worships crack hos.
>
> But what has this got to do with the preceding stanzas?
>
> For that matter what have any of the stanzas got to do with one another?
>
> There is not even so much as an attempt at a coherent narrative in this mess. It's just a series of random memories triggered by the preceding in a stream-of-consciousness style. IOW: Fragmentism.
>
> > Touches of exile
> > in this squalid box
> > brandishing browdsword.
>
> OMFG! There goes my parietal lobe!
>
> What is this verb-deficient non-sentence even trying to say? Does the Donkey feel like an exile living in Gooberville's squalid underbelly -- even though he is every bit the loser as his friends? Is Gooberville the "squalid box"? Or is the "squalid box" the room he's holed up in with Search Boy? Or Bodeen's room? Or the hundred-year old building?
>
> And why is the squalid box brandishing a browdsword?
>
> [I'm guessing that our Donkey meant to write "broadsword," but perhaps it's an example of the witty form of wordplay that only makes sense when one is snorting heroin with Search Boys.]
>
> > Locked away
> > at the edge of the world
> > sealed on a cliff.
>
> When your first metaphor fails, add two more.
>
> In this non-sentence, it appears that our exiled Donkey feels that he's locked inside the squalid box, which is precariously balanced on the edge of the (obviously flat) world... and on top of a cliff to boot!
>
> Is he realizing that drugs are a dead-end situation? Or has he run out of crackhead ho "heroines" to sniff?
>
> > Tomorrow always closing in
> > shut down future.
>
> Zap! Say goodbye to my cerebellum.
>
> This one's a real brain killer.
>
> I think the Donkey means to say that "Tomorrow is always closing in on him, to shut down the future."
>
> Yeah, that makes sense. Since tomorrow *is* the future, how is it shutting itself down?
>
> [At this point, the Donkey should emit a resounding "Doh!"]
>
> > Opera positions
> > in the front seat
> > formalities
> > forward.
>
> No! Not my corpus collosum!!!
>
> Literally (that is, as literal as one can be when confronted with a non-sentence) our Donkey has an opera shifting positions while sitting in the front seat of, one presumes, a car (since opera houses have front rows).
>
> But, of course, our Donkey has never been inside of an opera house -- and has probably never even seen one in Gooberville, and is utilizing his limited imagination to the fullest.
>
> Apparently the opera is shifting its position in the front seat of the car while keeping its formalities forward.
>
> [Don't ask me what that's supposed to mean, as I haven't got a clue and don't care to risk any more brain cells in trying to figure it out.]
>
> > Doc Pendleton
> > running on empty
> > pacing
> > placing
> > fleeing
> > accelerating,
> > vacant broadcast.
>
> Another non-sentence. That makes 8 out of 9, btw.
>
> Who is "Doc Pendleton"? Who knows? Another Gooberville loser our Donkey is name-dropping via a process of memory-fragment association.
>
> And our Donkey is certainly mixing his metaphors in this stanza! Doc's a car, a man nervously marking time, an Olympic athlete receiving a bronze medal, a man on the run, a perpetually speeding car and... dead air on the radio. Talk about being a Renaissance man!
>
> Perhaps "Doc Pendleton" is a nickname for the Donkey himself? After all, Stinky Bodeen is always referring to him as "Doc."
>
> If so, then Doc is pacing/racing/placing/broadcasting (not) in the "squalid box" he's become trapped in.
>
> Getting lost? I certainly am. Let's review what passes for the poem's narrative:
>
> The speaker tells someone (possibly himself) that he's "independent" due to a "moving studio motion."
> He's holed up with Search Boy either snorting heroin or sniffing the backside and/or privates of the poem's (as yet, non-existent) heroine. Bodeen is sleeping in a room that, like a hundred-year old building, is a mathematical structure. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Jack Burlington is worshipping crack hos. The speaker feels that he is both exiled to, and trapped within, a squalid room (apparently along with Search Boy and the "heroine" who they've been sniffing). The room is a box on the edge of the world on a cliff where the future is vainly attempting to eradicate itself. Suddenly (perhaps in some alternative universe), an opera shifts position in the front seat of a car, displaying "frontal formalities." Meanwhile, the speaker, who may be "Doc" Pendleton, is pacing/placing/racing/and broadcasting (not) inside the room-box that's poised atop a cliff at the edge of the world.
>
> Whew! I blew out both my frontal and occipital lobes on that one.
>
> > Seeing what it's like
> > to be old again
> > aged vision
> > youth drugs played out.
>
> Assuming that the speaker is relatively young (our Donkey would have been about 39 at the time of the poem's composition), why would he be seeing himself grow old again? I think that the Donkey means that he often has visions of himself growing old, however that isn't what his non-sentence is saying.
>
> In any event, he appears to have developed cataracts and run out of drugs (or, possibly exchanged heroin for Viagra).
>
> > A date with an empathetic expanse
> > like the portrait of Dorian Grey.
>
> Funny how all of the Donkey's attempts to appear literate betray themselves, as in the above example where he misspells the title character's name.
>
> How did Dorian's portrait have a date with an "empathetic expanse"? And what, for that matter, is an "empathetic expanse"?
>
> If the expanse is the Void/Nonentity/Death -- how would it be empathetic regarding Mr. Gray's portrait? I can see how Doc Pendleton, Bodeen, Jack Burlington, Search Boy and the assorted crack hos would find oblivion "empathetic," but Dorian Gray's picture?
>
> Oh, well. At least our Donkey attempted to make some sort of metaphor.
>
> Crap! There go my lateral ventricles!
>
> I'd better stop while I've still got some brain left.
>
> Readers are advised to read Will's complete poem at their own risk.
>
> PART II:
>
> Having hopefully restored much of yesterday's brain damage via a good night's sleep, I'm going to proceed with my critique. (I'm such a dare devil!)
>
> > Silhouette shadow lady
> > your tender river hands.
>
> Is this mysterious lady a silhouette or a shadow. You do realize that there's a difference, don't you?
>
> Or perhaps, unable to choose between the two options, you decided to go for both?
>
> Why are the lady's hands rivers? I've never seen hands flow.
>
> And what are the lady's "tender river hands" doing?
>
> Were this a sentence (Hint: it isn't), it would require a verb. "Silhouette shadow lady, your tender river hands caress my cheek."
>
> Is this woman the "heroine" you claim is in your poem? She appears to be the "devious" woman who turns up again below. If so, she would not be the heroine, but the villainess.
>
> RULE OF THUMB: Don't attempt to make a pun unless you understand what the words you're punning on mean.
>
> > He remembered the harmonicas of Ed Gray
> > The years of this separation.
>
> Is Ed Gray a well known harmonica musician? Nope. He's just another Gooberville boob that the Donkey is name-dropping, because his reference to "Dorian Grey" [sic] reminded him of Ed Gray. This is a perfect example of the stream-of-conscious style associative thought fragments that typify the Fragmentist works.
>
> And who is the "He" in this run-on non-sentence who remembered? The last person mentioned was the "silhouette shadow woman" -- is she really a man in drag (Bodeen?).
>
> > I feel green like Jack Midnight
> > The freedom
> > the crushing loneliness of freedom.
>
> Who is "Jack Midnight"?
>
> Readers whose brains haven't shut down entirely at this point will recall that the poem's speaker was trapped inside a squalid room in a box at the edge of the world on a cliff. Why doe he speaker feel a sense of "freedom"?
>
> And, FWIW, this is the 13th incorrect sentence out of the 14 that we've examined so far. Just sayin.'
>
> > Tomorrow closing in again
> > never get blessed with a memory lapse.
>
> Ouch! There goes my thalamus!
>
> If tomorrow is in the future (it is), it would not be effected by a memory lapse (which would pertain to the past) as this non-sentence implies. If Stinky George really read this dreck three times, he must be sitting in a puddle of drool, repeatedly flicking his lip while making "buh-buh-buh-buh-buh" noises.
>
> > Opera positions
> > in the front seat
> > we've lost the passion.
>
> That darned opera just can't sit still, can it?
>
> Who are the "we" in "we've"? The speaker and Search Boy and the ho they were sniffing?
>
> BTW: The count is now 1 sentence to 14 non-sentences.
>
> > Studio house with no lights
> > concubine by candle light.
>
> Hmm... we're back in the studio, only now it's a studio house (is this a euphemism for "The Shed"?). Fortunately, it appears to have stopped moving.
>
> SENTENCE COUNT: 1 out of 16.
>
> > Stacks of art books
> > and furniture
> > sex sleep.
>
> Why does the "studio house" have stacks of furniture in it? And who is having the "sex sleep"?
>
> The speaker, Search Boy and the sniff ho had lost their passion.
>
> SENTENCE COUNT: 1 out of 17.
>
> > Having a bad day in a bad year
> > mischief in the neighborhood
> > generation of the Hood.
>
> Who is having a bad day? In order to write a sentence, one needs to have a subject and a verb.
>
> SENTENCE COUNT: 1 out of 18.
>
> If one had a bad year, wouldn't the days of that year necessarily be bad as well? Isn't "mischief" a rather soft word for the violent criminal acts generally associated with "the Hood"?
>
> > Sinister figures in the paintings
> > she's devious
> > her nose is covered.
>
> Does the speaker see the mischief makers in the Hood within the painting? "Figures" is plural, yet he refers to them as a "she" (singular) in his string of sentence fragments. And what is so devious about covering one's nose? Perhaps the poor girl had to sneeze.
>
> SENTENCE COUNT: 1 out of 19.
>
> > Sinister friends breaking and entering
> > lap dance pirouette.
>
> Two more fragments, bringing the sentence count to 1 out of 20. I'm beginning to think that the one actual sentence was a mistake on the Donkey's part.
>
> I can't imagine what the sinister friends expect to find in the speaker's squalid room in a box at the edge of the (flat) world on a cliff -- except for drugs (and, possibly a "crack head ho" to sniff). But what really disturbs me is the "lap dance pirouette." That's got to hurt!
>
> > This school
> > is destroying my poetry
> > and the cranking power
> > of this honky-tonk.
>
> Woohoo! A sentence. Granted, it doesn't make a lick of sense, and it cost me what was left of my cerebral cortex, but it has both a subject and a verb, and hasn't got any tacked on fragments.
>
> Well, I guess that old saying about a broken clock is correct. The current sentence count jumps to 2 out of 21.
>
> NEWSFLASH: The school isn't destroying your poetry. You're just a pathetically inept, and illiterate writer.
>
> Is the speaker comparing himself to a honky-tonk? Did the Donkey actually write a half-decent metaphor? Will wonders ever cease?
>
> > Or is it just boxing it in
> > with discipline
> > feeling like a punch drunk lumberjack.
>
> The Donkey's on a roll! SENTENCE COUNT 3 out of 22.
>
> Again, it doesn't make a lick of sense, as he has an anthropomorphic discipline feeling like a punch drunk lumberjack. But a sentence is a sentence, so "Yay!"
>
> So let's see... the speaker is boxed in a squalid room in a (sometimes) moving studio house situated on the edge of a flat earth and precariously balanced atop a cliff. Inside this sometimes moving box studio house, he sniffs crack head hos with his friend, Search Boy; then feeling antsy he races, places, paces, and races again, stacks paintings and furniture while the opera shifts positions in the front seat of a car, moans about feeling old, philosophizes about how tomorrow is closing in on the future, and loses his sex drive... and he blames this (as well as his shitty poetry) on the school?
>
> > I'm not doing words of some rich soap opera
> > some blue velvet candybox
> > I'm right here in the streets.
>
> FINAL SENTENCE COUNT: 4 out of 23!
>
> And here we have it! Here is the credo of Will Donkey laid out in print for all the world to see!
>
> He's not "doing words" for some rich soap opera, or writing a description of the chocolates in a blue velvet candy box... he's writing about the lower echelons of Gooberville's society and his garbled, fragmented, and often incomprehensible non-sentences accurately reflect the vernacular of both himself and his drug-addled, crack ho sniffing, friends.
>
> Go Donkey!
>
> Which leads me to a rather eye-opening observation: in Gooberville, "high class" writing is what one finds on soap operas or on the back of blue velvet candy boxes. And here I've been wasting my time writing poetry, short stories, and the great American novel (sigh).
>
> -Will Dockery (1997)
>
> This poem was written 26 years ago, when Will Donkey was still marginally coherent (prior to his having been temporarily dead due to a drug overdose circa 2011). Sadly, his recent works have only gotten worse.
>
> Here, for something resembling clarity, is a complete breakdown of the Donkey's "unspeakable shit" poem:
>
> The speaker tells someone (possibly himself) that he's "independent" due to a "moving studio motion."
> He's holed up with Search Boy either snorting heroin or sniffing the backside and/or privates of the poem's (as yet, non-existent) heroine. Bodeen is sleeping in a room that, like a hundred-year old building, is a mathematical structure. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Jack Burlington is worshipping crack hos. The speaker feels that he is both exiled to, and trapped within, a squalid room (apparently along with Search Boy and the "heroine" who they've been sniffing). The room is a box on the edge of the world on a cliff where the future is vainly attempting to eradicate itself. Suddenly (perhaps in some alternative universe), an opera shifts position in the front seat of a car, displaying "frontal formalities." Meanwhile, the speaker, who may be "Doc" Pendleton, is pacing/placing/racing/and broadcasting (not) inside the room-box that inside of a (sometimes) moving studio house, that's poised atop a cliff at the edge of the world. He thinks of a silhouette shadow lady (Lady K) with river hands, then about Ed Gray's harmonica music, then about his years of separation (more of his usual whining about how Lady K, who was tired of having her genitals sniffed in exchange for blow, left him). He now feels like someone named "Jack Midnight" due to his crushing sense of freedom (whether this feeling was brought on due to Lady K's having left him, or if he was still reeling from the movements of his studio box-house on a cliff is anybody's guess). The opera shifts positions in its seat, again, and he feels tomorrow eating up the future again, and realizes that he and Search Boy have lost the passion for sniffing crack head hos -- even though he is sleeping beside one now in his one-room, art studio, shed. The opera doesn't shift positions, but the setting does: sinister mischief makers from a painting (including the devious, nose-masked Lady K) wreak havoc in the Hood, causing the speaker to have a bad year. Some of these sinister friends of his break into his house and do a pirouette on his lap. This leads the speaker to an epiphany: school has been destroying his poetry. Will Donkey wasn't meant to compose his poetry in intelligible sentences. No, Will Donkey is the poet of Gooberville's sleazy underbelly, and writes in the broken, fragmented, drug-addled garble spoken by him and his friends.