Analysis of I never look down in a port-o-john
Disappointing, expected, me thinks you to be mall walkers, empty wallets, synthetic purchased aesthetic and ripe with dumpster ethics, so frame and hang your fucking M,C. Escher - an egalitarian armada of self driven Kias will arrive at a nondescript Kinko’s to “patronize” an American business, never shrink your image, never recognize that the ink you pay for with pennies, is worth more than gold, so go make your millions.
It’s standard campfire bullshit Kumbayas - a set of Down’s Syndrome twins sway, sing, and I’m told to just listen, cut ticker tape, award blue ribbons that I’m never given and I drown for a moment in my own Titanic-torn frown…you pinch my nose as I go blue, feign panic, pump my chest, fumble eggs in a hidden bird nest that you too wil surely abandon, dip shit from a well and drink deep, touch me again and I’ll spit in your mouth…I’ve held my last hand, so fat, so sweaty, so soft.
I quit writing, I did, conflagration and fallow fields, the skid plate slid for decades, forceful constipation and muttering, what audience did I wish to forgive, beach, run relay, entertain, red eye, glib as a lobster bib - I was fucking good then, better now - switchblade knife, hot coil glowing, nighttime, inchwormed snake, cocoon stuffed, cloudy hangnail, braked, infectious, dangerously unpolished, a fingered sore cut, the upsetting jockey forgotten in your yard, never some carved marble monument, just too roughed up.
I’m put off by the existence of thin soup lapped from plastic utensils and near homicidal considering those not starving, are vocal, are grateful, opaque and slop-satiates, ship shit lists - I’d rather wade barefoot in hot porridge for no good reason, kill a deserving human being with my bare hands while rotary phone ringing, call the cops, dent cans, browse half-off, barrel roll half-cocked - I’ll smash sleeves of Sociable crackers, fast as you can place a wholesale order because I know they’ll be served dry, directly from the box. Fuck with me now, I don’t look down.
Port-o-john piles, peaks, cracks, crevices, deposit repeated reports, Marconi operator iceberg warnings, point north and it’s smooth sailing, no wonder Sylvia Plath put her head in an oven.
Scheme | X X X X X |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 0100101111111010100101001001110101101110010100100010111011011010111101010010101110101010111111011111111110 110101101111111011111011010111011101001110100110101111111111110111101001011111110010111010111101011011111111111011 111011010011011110110010010011001111011110111110101111011101111110111011101101010001010110010100100111011101001111 111100101111110010010100100111011011001011111110110110111101001010101111110011010111111101111111100101111101100111111101010111111111 111111100010010010101001010110111011010011010110 |
Characters | 2,244 |
Words | 381 |
Sentences | 7 |
Stanzas | 5 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 1, 1, 1, 1 |
Lines Amount | 5 |
Letters per line (avg) | 347 |
Words per line (avg) | 75 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 347 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 75 |
About this poem
Reflecting on the years that I could not or would not write poetry, years that passed following early and swift disillusionment I felt with the craft and standards of judgement held within it’s community as to what merits “good” work.
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Submitted by cannondaughtrey on December 12, 2022
Modified by cannondaughtrey on December 27, 2022
- 1:54 min read
- 32 Views
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"I never look down in a port-o-john" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 19 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/146521/i-never-look-down-in-a-port-o-john>.
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