Po-Po Porn

Po-Po A Tree

By George Wielgus

The aggrandising audacity of my perspicacity
Passed down from bards all through perpetuity
The gift of word games an inherited gratuity
Metered out method of melodic mythology.
Word-spell wizardy, taking your mind into captivity
With my shamanic ritual of hypnotic descriptivity.

What are poems if not the moment sublime
Captured on page and by voice to defy test of time
Clearly, rhyme shines
In my lyrical content
But I don’t think you’re missing the message I meant
To state non-obsequiously, remaining relevant
That Poetry is God manifest to bless the reverent.

It needs a reaction, to gain true satisfaction
Poetry to me not an idle distraction
A conviction that diction can be truly liberatory
Not just lulling you to sleep like a bedtime story
So don’t bore me, with your tawdry lines that lack-luster;
Unconvincing poems for which I cannot muster
A breathe of enthusiasm, I remain unpossessed by God
Watching people onstage blowing their literary wad.

Give me some fire!
Give me some tears.
Give me something that burns in my ears
Give me tsunami!
Give me desolate.
Something that resounds with my fear of my own fate.
Devastate me with declared disaster and woe,
Make me choke on jokes and my guts to want throw
Effect me, erect me, get me to respond to you
Leave me with the feeling that what has happened is true.

Be a poet like a lover, a shaman, a king
Warrior, pirate, artist, heroin.
Like a jester or clown or cloud or a sting
For love of God be a poet that is like something.
Not nothing, not empty pretension and word play
Discover inside what it is that you really need to say
Find the words that blaze from you like the fires of the Sun
Blasting from your heart like a bullet from a gun
Don’t run, have fun, like an orgasm you come
Spreading love-word-love to all some or none
Leave me broken, deflowered, transformed, transfixed
Bewildered, beleaguered, conflicted, complicit
In the murder of the self I was before I heard you speak
Transport me to the highest heights of your poetic peak.

Be my prophet my friend my saviour my end
My mind bend, heart rend, changed in ways I can’t comprehend.
To hallucinatory realities my consciousness send
Make me fight with myself battles in which I can’t contend
For as you speak my ears, my heart, my life, my soul, to you I lend
So with your words liberate me, leave me not condemned.

--

Word Porn

By George Wielgus

I want to word you
I want to put my words inside of you

Don’t be afraid
I’ll start off slow, gentle
With little short words
So you relax, get comfortable
So you start you like it
Then they’ll get bigger
Harder, faster
Caressing you with lexis
Titillating with syntax
Obfusticating with metaphor
Egregious with symbolism

Steady, don’t get too excited

Words start off flaccid
But get inflated with passion
Erect with meaning
Soon they’re driving a fire inside of you
Massive throbbing words
Huge great purple-headed words
Flushed with allegorical juices
Dripping, hot, miasmic words
Spraying, coursing, biting, kissing words
Words of wanton abandon

I want to see the look on your face
As you feel my words working their literary magic
As the unrelenting flow
The pressure
The insistence of my words
Transforms your experience
From the mundane to the supreme

I want you to gasp as I thrust
A deep word
A grammar of ecstasy
A vocabulary of entries and exits
Right up inside your mental crevasses
Infiltrating areas you never knew you had

Wording, wording, wording
Suck on my words
Put my words in your mouth
And spit them back out at me

I want to ride your pentameter!
Incite me to further daring acts of wordage
Word me like you’ve never been worded before
You’ve got the best words in the world
The biggest words
The hardest words
The best words I’ve ever had

Word me, baby!
Word me faster, word me slower
Word me like you love me
Word me up to the highest highs
That’s it! That’s it!
I’m wording, oh my God, I’m wording!
Word with me! Word with me!

The climax of punctuation:
An exclamation mark!

Followed by
A tentative question mark.

Did you conjugate the verb?

Full stop.

--

© George Wielgus 2009

George Wielgus: The creative process should be fast and furious, orgasmic, uneditted, raw, blasting out of you with the velocity of a bullet from a gun. Bukowski had much to say about writing and rewriting, and I would be in agreement that the less editting the better. The more you agonise over words, the further you get from the honesty of expression that will personalise your voice and your work. The skill is to write all the time, not rewrite, to push forward with your creations, to bring closer together the impossible ideal of the internal thought externalised purely and convincingly.

George Wielgus, AKA Mighty Jah-J!, is not a poet, not an artist, not a volunteer, not a director, not a teacher, not an activist, not multi-hyphenate anything, really. He did win two of the three ever Kuala Lumpur Poetry Slams, which means little if anything, and spends his days living in a dying artist's colony in a corner of Malaysia's dying artistic scene. He recently returned from ten days in Sumatra, where he had to share maggie mee with his travelling partner, and spent most of his time riding around in ice-box buses, fearing for his life on terrifying high-speed cross-country death-jaunts. It was the best holiday he's ever been on.

Read George’s psychetropico delerium tremens flashbacks at http://acidmaggot.wordpress.com/, and more of his poems at http://mightyjahj.wordpress.com/