Lets Talk About Blame

Here's an odd piece to kick off a new blogging season. Here I'm imitating Gurtrude Stein's (depicted in the Picasso above) modernist poetry (If it's rightly called poetry) for a writing assignment in my "Dirty Thirties" American Literature course. I find myself reading it and wondering about psychology. For instance, psychoanalysts would probably say that you can find things out about yourself--your subconscious motives and whatnot--through this kind of free-styling expression.

It also seems to resemble some of what goes on when a person sleeps. Is the disassociated and seemingly random cognitive activity during sleep a kind of therapy for the mind? If so, maybe these kinds of exercises therapeutic too. Who knows.  

It isn't completely disassociated though, and this makes it somewhat interesting to read (at least for me). It has an aesthetic too (modern art), although it may be contested that my little contribution really counts as "art" at all :). In any case, I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it. 

Lets Talk About Blame

The blood, contained, undrained, kind of like a stranger. How naïve to think of those innocent things.

Bear in mind son, blare in mind, bare your mind, there is a bear in your mind son. Spare your sons. If you dare, wear your sons--tear your sons. 

Take your treasures, Triton is not teased. I had your head once, take mine. Here we are, let’s lunch. Let’s take everything. Lets launch!

Take if you must. I never said I lie. I never said I’d lie and wait forever. 

Your husband is gray. Your husband is gay. Is your husband okay? Let’s play a few bars in the key of sea. Spell yourself carefully. Will it to be. Has it always been this hard to be? Has it been hard to breathe? I seem to cream cheese on the breeze. Please oh please oh please, breathe!

Wheat girl. You so speak treats.  A wave in the sprawling landscape falling swiftly in the untame. God is not sane. God will not be tame and the lovers don’t care what unfair words the guns may say.  

La la la blah blah blah blah. It’s a song. Don’t be jealous of a damn song! Grief. It starts in the key of please.  It’s not a song to be sung lightly or spitely, it’s a song to be sung rightly. Sing with your spleen. Scream.

A hole, a holy hole. Holy hell. Fix your eye on the donut son, not on the whole. Smell it son. Be merciful sun. The word “truth” isn’t spelled with any of your letters, only mine. Smell your letters, they smell fine. Alright?