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Why, Rules?

Why, rules?

Nikolay Blagoev

copyright©2016 Nikolay Blagoev

© Publisher – Bukvite Fondation

ISBN 978-619-154-205-5

RULES ARE FOR THE READER NOT THE WRITER

A simple composition about words, taxes, death, and waste of ink.

Rule 1: A poem must be real

The 0 rant[*:*]

„Google, Google searching site
Show me how to bring a book to sight“

I said as I was searching how to publish a book. Probably should backtrack a little bit. I had just found out poetry competitions exist and was excited to participate with my own humble art. To my disappointment I found out a poem must be ‚real‘ or ‚legible‘, meaning it has to be published in a book with an ISBN. So look at this over glorified ink on dead tree parts (or if you have downloaded it from the Internet – over glorified 0‘s and 1‘s) and tell me if the poems are real. Tell me I am a real boy, not a wooden doll. Yes, this book was born out of spite, but do not let this influence your opinion of the words that are to follow in the next pages. I do not claim to be Shakespeare, Homer, Edgar Poe, Dr. Seuss or Souljaboy, (ok one of these is not a realpoet. Sorry, Poe) my mortal words are meant for the view of few. And if you are of those do not be offended, don‘t think it is vulgar – bare in mind I have not used any word that is not in the English dictionary… Shumbakalalalupe. I know my poems are a bit like a person who has been hit by a bomb… because they are all over the place. But I hope they make you think and laugh (or at least make you exhale loudly from your nose). Obviously, there are no rules about art… but there are common misconceptions and stigmas that have become almost like rules. This book is not a rebellion. It’s a letter (a paper e-mail). Now that Rule 1 has been met, proceed to emote to words on paper.

Rule 2: Love is an inspiration and it sells well

A lovely ode to Love:
Love is a giggling feel
You feel day and night.
Love is a tingling feel
That makes you do right…
But love is a lie.
Or as Freud would say,
Love is a social construct, created
to explain your desire to mate,
There is no love, no faith.
Love is an economical fire
Burning on dreams and desire
To produce a mountain
Of cash, fame, and cars…
Love is a fairy tale,
Of lame, nerdy male
And a popular female
At your local store for sale…
Give up, because love is not real
Or is it?

Is love the sensation
That uplifts your day?
Is love the joy you get
When you get the fridge opened
And see the food you wanted?
The feeling that share
Juliet and her star crossed lover
Or even before
Oedipus and his mother.
Isn‘t love just gravity?
Love is an entire joyful nation
Where everyone gets a coronation
Oh praise love
The most lovely sensation
Of the human‘s emotion
spectrum!!!
Isn‘t love nothing but art
A painter is to capture
A moment of love
And a poet is nothing
But a hopeless romantic!
I was born a critic
A sarcastic cynic,
But now I am in a sea,
Love is everywhere
For my eyes to see.

Isn‘t love…
what makes you ecstatic
when She comes in sight,
And you feel like a fanatic
As She is your Aphrodite,
with Her hair, smile, chin.
She. Is a
Smart and out going swan.
She. Is a
Beauty phenomenon.
She. Laughs
At all your jokes.
She. Loves
Hanging out with your „bros“.
She. Is a
word that rhymes with orange.
She. Is a
square root of negative one.
BECAUSE SHE IS NOT REAL!!!

You dream of a sophisticated drunk,
Of a walking
talking oxymoron.
Forget Her.
There is no perfection
We all suffer from imperfection.
And He is not real too.
You all dream of a better version
of yourselves.
Let Them go.
For as long as They are with you,
You‘ll never be happy.
You don‘t love Them,
You love the idea of being in love,
You are an addict.

There is no attraction,
Love is a chemical reaction,
Oxytocin, dopamine…
There are fish in the sea,
but some are goldfish
others are a shark,
and some are jellyfish
with no heart.
So fly little dove
seek out love,
but don‘t be made fool of,
for this world is full of,
Those Eris’s cannons,
and none of Cupid‘s arrows.

Rule 3: Show don’t tell

A sad man sits alone in a dim room
Face buried in his palms, crying in hide.
This depressed man was today to be groom
Dressed in suit, heart-broken, left by his bride.

The door opens a bachelor flies in,
He‘s clearly drunk, wiggling as he creeps.
He laughs at the view, now that‘s just obscene.
This character sits and words of comfort speaks:

„Oi, paw, stop loathing in *burp* self regret , thou need to stop thinking of that whore. All thy memories *burp* of her forget , because with fish there is always more“

Later, the man at home picked up a rope,
And on a wall hung himself and his hope…

Rule 4: A poem must be long

One word poem:
Why?

Two word poem:
What if…

Three word poem:
Three word poem.

Four word poem:
Only you – nobody else

Five word poem:
You decide to leave me.

Six word poem:
I love you. I want you.

Seven words in a poem:
My heart cannot be broken. GO! I…

Eight word poem:
Six, four, two, five, one, seven hate you.

Rule 5: Metaphors, Similes, Imagery

Dog, hunter, and a rabbit

Like the sun I rose
When a black crow
Knocked on my door.
Like a man who is angry
I angrily shouted
„What do you
In such an early hour
want of me?“
And like a mother
Scolding her child
The crow yelled
„Don‘t you take
That tone at Me!“
An old dog I
Stood up from the sheets.
I dressed in
Black, black, black.
This is a metaphor
Of my dark soul
And how emo
I was born.
To a building
Meant for learning
Used for…
Used for…
Even God does not know
What it is used for.
So I headed to school.
There I was
a mushroom in the woods
I sat in school.

She stood before me like Eve
Because she was the first girl I have you know..

Talked to.

She spoke thus:
„Like a society
That is headed nowhere
Like a mindless generation
Like a lime without pulp
Thou live with thy mother
When thou art twenty“
I looked at her
Her hair wet
Her clothes wet.
She smelled of rain.
It was raining in fact.
Rain drops banging
upon the ground
Like a bad drummer
At a metal concert.
I opened my mouth
To sound words of answers…
A metal bird sang
„Time for class“.
The herd rushed.
„Slow and steady
Wins the race“
I thought.
I was late for class.
Detention.

Next day I woke
And I was like communism
Because I had no class.
It was vacation.
I was grounded though
Stuck at home,
A domestic arrest.
Great my vacation is wasted.

Melt, you summer snowman.

This previous sentence is a metaphor.
But of what?
Even I don‘t know.

What was this poem about?? Doesn’t matter – it has lots of metaphors so it is a deep and good poem, despite lacking any sense.

Rule 6: Grammar, Words, Rhyme

Mrdrs on Lncln strt:

Rain. Footsteps. Gun.
Shot. Blood. Run.
Night. Morning. Sun.
Scream. Phone. Cops.
Sirens. News. Corpse.
Station. Mother. Son.
Sorrow. Tears. Ton.
Late. Home. Leave.
Son. Bed. Sleep.

The nght passed, but he could not sleep
He couldn‘t shake the thought of the man
Who mrdrd his dear dead dad
Who left him half an orphan
Half of what he was born…
Listening to the rhthm of his heart He was *beat* drow nin g *beat* In his *beat* lust fr *beat* revenge *beat* beat* *beat*

He missed school that day
And the nxt one too.
Searching out for blood
A judg, jury, and executioner.
He was coming home late
He barely slpt or ate.
His mother ws growing worried
So she made him vow
To StAY out of trouble
To not dabble
With this double life.
But vowels did not mattr to him.

For He was justice he w’s right.

It took a month for him to find
The murdrr of no sound mind
Who, on that faithful night,
Deprived him of a father
Of a loving caring parent.
In the deep raining dark,
He approached the house…

Crack goes the lock
Tick-tock
Goes the clock
Bang goes the glock
Out, he goes in the fog…

The commotion woke up
the two sleeping sons of the father.
Who got up to discover
A cold paternal body on the carpet.

Repeat.

Rule 7: Connect to your reader

So this is around the middle of the book so let‘s do some bonding

Don‘t you hate it when you wake up and you don‘t have the latest iPhone or the complete IKEA kitchen set?
Don‘t you hate it how you are failing as a consumer and are afraid that your friends will push you away for that?
Because I am. Though I am nothing but a disembodied voice in your head, I have a family, mortgage to pay, a college tuition for my son… I too feel the weight of capitalism on my. So just play along so my boss won‘t fire me, OK? Thanks

Alright now nod thoughtfully as you are reading this to appear as if you are reading an intellectual book. Good nod like the obeying monkey you are. Now laugh nervously. Now laugh abruptly. Now laugh silently as if you are being choked by a ghost. Now breath. You are not being choked breath calmly. Now you are aware of your breathing so don‘t stop breathing. OK now learn Latin. Deus mortuus est. NOW MAKE ME SCREAM LIKE A FAN AT A FOOTBAL GAME! Now turn down the volume a bit. Now divide by zero…

We apologies for the interruption, but we bring you the news that your previous voice has been crushed by the weight of taxes, credits, and the existential awareness of being alive. We will be supplying you with a new voice shortly.

Rule 8: You are too young to tackle serious issues

Altere:
It happened one day…
A kid with three legs was born
A character you will soon mourn.
He got lonely soon and set out
On a quest for new friends to find.
Footstep after another and then a third
He was exploring, free like a bird.
He ran into a building with a sign
A sign with a text in blue:
Club for 2
„A club sounds for me
How fitting it would be“
The three legged kid thought.
He entered and marveled at the view
People everywhere talking, laughing
„can I join“ he asked the partying.
In response – an abrupt laughter
„This is a club for two legged only“
He ran in tears – Again he was lonely.

He ran and ran so long
Until The laughter had gone.
His eyes spotted a mansion
bigger than the one he saw
All clean, as white as bone
With a sign: Club for one
„I can stand on one foot
Why could I not?
I can jump and hop“
He entered but was chased again
With cruel words and no friend.

He ran and ran until
the streets were gone And still
He was lead
To a crippled shed.
On a wooden plank
There was carved:
“Club for none”
The most miserable one.
The kid was filled with hope
„I can carry them up any slope
I will be there feet, a horse
Friends at last! Remorse!“
He entered and with a smile
And asked: may I join you for a while?
Silence. Then abrupt laughter
„No! This is a club for people
With no legs, you freak“
The kid stood in shock
„ but I can carry you“
„Leave us, creep“
The mob crawled to him
Chanting: „freak freak freak“
The three legged kid ran out,
He ran until the clubs cannot be seen.
Now on forming a club he was keen
„A club better than the rest,
Where all are accepted.
Come all rejects, come
and at this club have fun!“

On the first day of the club
A kid with legs four
Wiggled through the door
„ may I join this club of yours“
The three legged kid smiled
And to the application said:
„No this is a club for people
With three legs strictly
Go away, you hear me?
freak!“

Some have one, some have two
Some have three, other four
Some have none
And some all,
No matter what gave the Father
We are doomed to hate each other.

Rule 9: Haikus aren’t real poems

[_“Only the good die _
young”, _][_said the eighty year old man
while robbing the bank
__
Personality
Is all that matters some say.
Good thing I have few.]

[
Step on a crack break
your mom‘s back. But smoke crack and
you‘ll break your mom‘s heart.]

“You are what you eat”

Said the wise Cannibal while

Enjoying his meal

Rule 10: Keep it with a happy theme and A positive message

[[Alphabet song
]]Intro:
A. B. C. D. E. F. G.
U. R. A. Slave of society
O. P. Q. R. S. T. U.
Your possessions possess you
Kick it.
A beat, so sick that it would make any hip hop artist jealous, starts playing in the background

Verse 1:
This is a hip hop song
It‘s a cheap hot hit song.
So bang the gong,
Because art is gone:
Doesn‘t need to make sense
Only needs to make cents
cash register sound
Art is your heart
But now it‘s dead
So it‘s kinda hard
To not be an air-head.
Content isn‘t of importance.
Just repeat some chorus.
Do some hip rotations
And bath in admirations.
So gobble gobble
You little noble
Take your royalties,
take your gold on plate.
A ticket of gold for a plane,
One way to Richmen lane.
We‘re the carnivorous crickets,
Conforming catalog community,
Consenting to coming to be puppets,
So we spell art
As C R TM

Chorus:
Will you save me?
Will you save me from the hardships of the world?
From being another carnival horse.
Will you save me?
Will you save me from being but digits on a paper?
From being yet another empty creator.
Save me, oh save me from being another alphabet letter,
From being alpha or omega.

Verse 2:
Face your face
Cuz you are a disgrace
Ugly, burly,
Little Ms. Hurly.
Rule 1: Don‘t be happy, you‘re imperfect.
Pay us to fix you, to make you perfect.
For some looks and clothing,
and your educational reforming,
A little nose job, A little here,
A little there,
And now you are a flawless doll!
Too bad we cannot fix your soul.
The kids are skipping school,
Protesting they are „cool“,
A system, taking its adieu.
Here is a future preview:
Capitalism is spelled with a capital K
And Idiocracy is a documentarAAAY

Chorus :
Will you save me?
God, Will you save me from my mortal damnation?
From my own creation?
Will you save me?
Will you save me AS I DON‘T WANT TO CONFORM NOW!
But tonight I am a wolf for a Circus clown.
Save me, oh save me from being but a name on a tombstone.
Save my heart and soul in yours

Yeah… let‘s go

Verse 3:
All Abate Acidic Advertisements
Advocating Alcohol‘s Aggrandizements.
Alas, An Ancnhor of Ageism,
Announcing ‚Anathema‘, A schism.
The Becalmed Bigots‘ Baptism
Becomes Beholding Beauty
In Both Belief and study.
Benighted Berks Blindly Brawl
Being But Bewitched Bawd‘s Beau.
Cultural Cadavers Cadge
Cash – Captor‘s Cage,
Carelessly Cancelling Change.
Certain Circle Circus
Dastardly Desiccates us.
Deracinating Destiny‘s Destination,
Debts Doing Devastation,
The Displaced – Degraded to Decoration .
Deriving Delirious Delusions,
Everyone Educates Exclusions.
Ecclesiastical Endeavours Emerge ,
Evicting Egalitarian urge,
Encyclicals Entomb Erudition
Ergo
Faux Fathers For Fool‘s Fruition.
Fashion Fevers Fetter
Felicity, Feigning Flatter,
Fatuous Femme Fatale.
Fractious Facades Fall
From Farces Freed all.
Gaggles Gabble Gall,
Gawking Ground to Giants,
Glamorising Gory Goliaths.
Headlines of Hammered Headaches:
„Heaven Hasn‘t Healed Heartbreaks“.
Halt, you Heated Heads,
I Imply Instead:
Imagination In this Impédes
It Is Incomprehensible.
Idle Idols Indulge In Ignorance:
Ignoble Inequality Is Infamous.
Judases Judge Jesus,
Judgment for Juvenile Judges.
Jolly Joy for Joker Jacks!
Jerks Justifying Jeering Jags
With Just
Kidding.
Kapitalism Kills Kindness,
Kindles Knelt Knees,
Known Kafkaesque!
Loving Liqueur Lies
Living Lost Lives.
Lofty Liberty is Locked Low
Louts Lashing „Laudable“ Laws,
Laughter Lacerates the Latter,
Medicine for Matrix‘s Masquerade.
Movie Martyrs Marching
Marvel and Malware Marking,
Malicious Money Making.
Mahatma Machiavellian Manipulating
Marionettes and Matchstick Men,
Magi Murdered by Mannequin.
Microphones Magnifying Mutton-heads‘ Monologues
Natch, Naive Nations Nominate that bog.
Nosy News Need Negligibility:
Nauseous from Nearsighted Nobility
Non-partisan Narrator in captivity,
Nooks from Noxious Negativity;
Nurseries Nurture Normativity.
Obdurate Oafs Omit my Oration
Opining Obscenity, Obtuse Objection
My Oeuvre is an Outlet, Onset Of Odium:
„Oi, Odious Oiks,
Observation Of your Opprobrium
Obtrudes Ogling Ostracism
Obvious Obstructionism“
„Obliged to Obsequiousness,
Obnoxious Oaths, Obliviousness“.
Ode to Opinion‘s Obituary
Obsequies Of Originality
Ovations To Ordinarity.
Paean to Palmy Past
Partially now Passed:
Patients of Procrastination,
Pangs of Panic! Palpitations!
A Pandemic of Perturbation
By Parade‘s Perfunctory Participation.
Pedagogical Pantomimes and Prostration.
Pariah Puppet are Praised
Paragon Prodigies are waste.
Quietus Quality
Quits my Quandary
I Quibble, Qualms Quoth:
„Queri. Be Quiet“.
Rabbles Rebel in Race Riots
Rabid Rabbits Reinforce Racism
Rekindling Rapt Radicalism.
Rancour Reaps Regret.
I, a Raconteur Ramble,
Repugnant Rats I Rankle.
Saddens me to See
Samey Saccharine artistry,
Songs Sacrificing Sanity
For Sale‘s Sake, Sickening vanity.
Scrawling on Scrolls Satire
Scowling at Society‘s Satanic desires.
Scripted Spectacle of Skulduggery
Scenes of Spurious Sincerity,
Silhouettes of Slothful Submission
Security Sedates me on Suspicion
Stopping my ‚Saboteur‘s Sedition‘
Selfish Senates Sanction
Seeking Savvy and Satisfaction;
I See-through your Segregation!
Souls Suffer Starvation,
Sinners Speak of Salvation.
Surely Shammed Sheep
Should Shame Shekels,
The Shackles of Shepherds,
Shimmers of Shallowness.
Teachers Tired of Tardiness
Taint Tadpole‘s Tininess.
Tempestuous Teenagers Tell
A Tad Tearjerker Tale,
Of The Torture Telltale.
Tackling Tenets is Taboo
Though Telling me
Triggers a Tee-hee!
Unique Ubuntu is Unwanted
Utilitarian Utilities Unanimously voted:
Unimportant.
Valiant Veterans, a Verbal
Veneer Of Venal Vice,
Voicing Vexatious Vituperations
Vying for Veto on Vaccinations
Vivre la Vacuity!!!
A Vomit of Vermin‘s Vulgarism!
We Wane from Waging
War With ourselves
When We Want Wanderings.
So Walkout Into
World of Wonder,
Waters of Warmth
Winsome Welcomes.
Witness Waterfalls.
Whenever, Wherever.
Xpress
Yourself, You
Zombie!

Rule 11: Sign the poem with your name for copyright issues

*Existential crisis [*in the asylum:]

As you can see this book is signed under Nikolay E. Blagoev
But that‘s not me
I am not the name
I am not the arm
The leg or foot
I am not the thought
Or the words
I am nor the body,
I am not ‘myself’,
I am nor the smile,
Nor the frown.
Exactly.
I am me.
I am me too!
Who are you!
I am me
You can‘t be me
No I am me
But I am me
So am I.
Are you me?
I am not you
Not him, nor her
Not the M, nor the E
I am me.
Who are we?
And who is he?
Who?
The one reading us. Is he me too?

Rule 12: End it.

Starring:
A really handsome guy as The Author

Some person as The Old Voice in your head
Morgan Freeman as The New Voice in your head
Souljaboy as himself
Roland Adkinson, as a really cool character, but you still see him as Mr. Bean

Writer: Nikolay Blagoev
Reader: You
Director: A French ami (ami is French for friend)
Camera guy: Nobody Even
Lighting: Reads These
Sound editor: Names Ever.
Puppy tamer: So Why Are
Editor: They Here.

Nothing is real.

Even indescribable is describable – if somethings is indescribable it is already described.

Thank you for reading this book. This is the last chance I will get to write to you before it’s over. If you found it dark, offensive, or just bad poetry, you need to re-read the book, because you clearly did not understand it or its meaning. If you laughed and felt sad, an emotional rollercoaster, then you read the book right.

Anyhow that is all from me, now proceed to the last ‘Rule’:

Rule 14:

CONTENTS

Why, rules?2

RULES ARE FOR THE READER NOT THE WRITER3

Rule 1: A poem must be real5

Rule 2: Love is an inspiration and it sells well6

Rule 3: Show don’t tell9

Rule 4: A poem must be long10

Rule 5: Metaphors, Similes, Imagery11

Rule 6: Grammar, Words, Rhyme14

Rule 7: Connect to your reader16

Rule 8: You are too young to tackle serious issues17

Rule 9: Haikus aren’t real poems20

Rule 10: Keep it with a happy theme and A positive message21

Rule 11: Sign the poem with your name for copyright issues28

Rule 12: End it.29

Rule 14:30


Why, Rules?

In a world, where the advertisement is more important than the actual product itself, a simple description will become the commercial for a simple book. Are you getting tired of long books that take days to read? Do you have the attention span of a goldfish? Well we have just the thing for you! “Why, Rules?” is the simple child of the modern day world and a satirical mind. This 24 page composition (shorter than some symphonies) is a simple read for your mundane commute or while waiting at one of those typical lines, existing as a mandatory part of bureaucracy. You can find it tedious or perhaps moving, but most probably - baffling. Are you getting tired of every poem being the same? Are you not fed up with listening to the same melody in every song? In short (TL;DR) – “Why, Rules” consists of 14 themes, structures, or ideas, overused in poetry, which are viewed with a cynical eye and ridiculed for their predictability. Each “rant” is formed as a short “poem”, in an attempt to show the reader that poetry, and art in general, cannot be put in a box, cannot be measured or compared. As you step through the threshold of this book and you smell its digital pages, and you feel its poorly drawn hardcover in your hands, ask yourself – “What is art?”. This book does not take itself seriously and laughs at its own reflection (Do not attempt at home), being put satire or parody. Give this book to your emo friend, because you forgot to buy him a gift. Perhaps even give it to your grandma.

  • Author: Nikolay Blagoev
  • Published: 2016-08-26 09:20:14
  • Words: 3053
Why, Rules? Why, Rules?