Go Fuck Yourself Yeats (A Poem)
Oh, weary eyes!
Nay, I cannot hear nor taste,
my fingertips twinge at this misery.
The poet dead in his hills
laughs at my prose, chortles,
spasms and writhes beneath his green mound.
‘Who are you to say you can craft!
Continue boor; slop away your days churl;
art is for men in the meadows.’
Yeats, you are dead.
Swords still kill, yet your words do not.
Art is dead, yet you are right.
Who am I to say I can craft?
What I am slouching toward, some tedium,
some modest town? I hear Durham is nice.
Mounds are not green anymore, they are pear,
or parakeet, or chartreuse. Deaths are not sad anymore,
they are shocking, or hateful, or routine.
Your world was easy, Yeats,
so don’t lecture me. Even if you are right,
there are fewer words now to be mighty.
Finished a chapter today, some words, some revision. Chop, chop, haste, beat, scene, act.
Words written today: 208
Total for 2017: 47,564
Revision today: 1 chapter
Revision total: 54 chapters
Total words for this manuscript: 118,797 (+10,157)