Chapter 4 – Poetasters
And death to the Hacks!
I see them gnashing away at levity as they do, sucking on life’s rind with their uncut teeth. Proper indications of fatalism with their ‘born to be’ discourse, each of them anomalously persuaded that they are painting with the inherited brush of Picasso. I see them walking the hippest streets of Montreal and Vancouver, eyes toward the sky and shouting at the unresponsive ether for a sign of validation. They step on my toes as they pass, ignoring me and my bad haircut. And what are they to offer but another muzzled voice?
And disdain for the Hacks!
And their cleverness, quantifiable as currency, and their words, intriguingly arranged, but predictable as ever. I know their warped vision. They view each of their outputs as rungs on a ladder. Callous calculations spinning in their thoughts, they would eat the heart of you or I so long as an audience would be formed. And what of their gift, absorbed through the blood of Apollo, that courses through their veins? No, you members of the inane gaggle, a gift not conducive to condemnation is no gift at all.
And examination of the Hacks!
Who once upon a time discovered the sway that they held over the bisexual nymphets, moon grass grazers, and precarious exhibitionists who so keenly took to the untouchable mediums of this new century. And let this further illuminate the distinctions between us. Know that I would willingly castrate myself if it meant that I could work more peacefully. And while their cocks were being massaged to whispers of suicide pacts and elopement, I would sit unaccompanied under dim light with a growing collection of unread postulations, the existence of which I could never be fully sure of. A tree falls in a forest, but that doesn’t get anybody laid.
And empathy for the Hacks!
Because we are one and the same. Astute readers would have already picked up on that. You are safe and you are correct to judge me. The arrows I volley are not shot from a bow of otherworldly material, nor are they readied by untarnished hands. My first taste of tangible success came fairly recently with the publication of Restoring Conviction: The Hope and Faith of a Public Servant, and while my name was not allowed anywhere near it, I read every single review and followed the public and critical reaction to that book like a man possessed. Are these the actions of an enlightened creator? No, these are the actions of a eunuch who has retained a trace of feeling in his groin. These are the actions of a Hack.
And envy for the Hacks . . .
Because I know the things I would do to be openly counted amongst their ranks. Because I’ve often dreamed up a life where I am not just accepted by them, but embraced. I want to walk their streets with shoes unscuffed. I want to be their chosen king, the man who came from nothing, the man whose bad haircut they all now emulate. I want the keys to their Royal Palace and the secret backroom where the elite congregate and hand jobs are wordlessly initiated.
And now a parting gift for the Hacks.
This is tearing me up. Quartered by my arms and their genuine desire to gesture something that matters and my legs and their commitment to standing tall on the cliffs of contrarianism. I was once told never to offer advice to those who do not ask for it. I adhere to this, though ironically, I didn’t ask for that particular piece of advice when it was given to me. So if these words are to be immediately dissipated and lost to the wind before reaching unwelcoming ears, this I will accept.
Ready then?
Neverkisssanguinelipsneverguideinlawlessshipsneverwatchrustbeformedneverdanceintorridstormsneverdrinkfromunknownuddersneverliewithtwooldloversneverbreakwithscriptedwavesneverdelveinunclaimedcavesneverbuildwithflawlessnailsneverrepeatoncetoldtalesneversignwithborrowedpensneverboundtowardeasyendsneverpraytofadingflamesnevergorgeonfetteredfamenevercalltheclearestbluffsandneversleeponjustenough.
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