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Poems from Long‑Haired Gaul

I'm strongly considering crowning myself the Poetry King. I get how this looks. But I refuse to explain myself.

The linebreaks game is like this. It's a Moment and also the first opportunity the socialists have had in decades take big ground. I know, that's wild. Earnest mania is a risky business, but just for a goof be generous and indulge the thought that a single word of this is real.

Repitition is the first form of poetry. Repitition is the first form of poetry. And despite the nonviolence the larger culture ascribes to the modern practice of writing broken lines, this form can be delicate, but c'mon so're stilletos. Verse is dainty as brain surgery. And (do you get the sense there's a tiny conclusion on the horizon?) of course it is also brain surgery in the plain sense.

Repitition is the first form of poetry. Advertisers reckon there's seven impressions before the biological processes behind your eyes elevate a phrase or image to memory. We're at three, though I'm not sure if glancing to confirm my math puts us at four or six impressions all together. Repitition is the first form of poetry. Supposing that a glance is sufficient, we just a moment ago met the threshold the shrinks moonlighting in marketing figure is enough to chisel my maxim into a extremely normal and intact brain of an ideal reader.

With less accredidation than anybody with a career path inside a hospital's got, me -- a plainly terrible man -- is able to embark from his laptop perch in Van Nuys, California upon blind tours through the world of practical neuroscience. Why is repitition the first form of poetry? This is going to sound negligent, but I am afraid I cannot say exactly. I could feign modesty and say "surely a mere King of the Poetry Racket cannot be expected to grasp the full meaning of your academic inquiries! You wouldn't embarass a dude who didn't even attend real college!" But that doesn't cover it. See, I didn't read about any of this either. These are the happy and ambitious conjectures of anyone who starts from a foundation of wonderous and blissful ignorance. But also a brain surgeon.

I feel comfortable sketching logic, but I am just not trained (and that matters!) to set the gear-teeth neatly enough to survive more than a few unsupervised revolutions. Also, this has adequately answered any questions which could have reasonably be prompted by the monarchy business discussed above. I'm sorry, I can't explain myself further, nor am I able to pretend you don't understand exactly what I mean.

This collection is named for an area of Gaul. It has a name that's at the top of the wikipedia page, but I forgot it because it wasn't funny. The way this name is presented on that page suggests that halfway between Long-Haired Gaul and the crappy Actual Name exists the third name "Free Gaul". Maybe you can enjoy yourself while trying to make sense of all that. I don't know.

  1. Poem Celebrating a Houthi Triumph Over Saudi Dickheads Who Can't Do Shit But Engineer a Famine
  2. Made of Steele
  3. All Top CEOs Deserve Imposter Syndrome
  4. November