A dark stage and the staccato of bongoes.
A muted trumpet plays an incoherent Jazz riff.

A single spotlight shines on a young man on the stage. Is if Franco? If yes he is wiping espresso foam off his chin. If it is Ginsberg, trust me, you don't want to know.

What is that he is saying?

"with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-cohol and cock and endless balls," (Actual quote from Howl Oh how how I hate having to explain my breferences!)

I heard the best voices of the Mudcat silenced with endless streams of Bull Shit.

I heard the editing of editors who said they would not edit.

I saw the complaints about the writing of others when the writing of the others had ceased.

I howled! I Howled I howled!!
Do you want to write bad fiction or not?
Ask not for whom the cursor blinks. It blinks for you.
It blinks for you. It blinks for you. It blinks for you.
And in closing this poem, this epic, this self-indulgent ode to bad poetry invokes the spirit of the Poet laureate of this hallowed forum our one and only Catspaw VD the only one worthy of the letters VD after his name. (Doctor of Vulgarity) I say in this humble epic poem to you!


Shut the fuck up and write your own shit!
Shut the fuck up and write your own shit!
Shut the fuck up and write your own shit!