- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Pulitzer Prize Winning Poet Percival P. Pederast Explains his Writing Method
I wake up, boil a pot of coffee, smoke a joint, drink a shot of whiskey. My twenty-year-old cat Lucifer comes down from his perch atop the stairs and bellows at me; his unceasing wailing stimulates my creative juices. I have to restraint myself from placing him in a plastic sack and tossing it in the garbage can. He is, however, my oldest friend; he was here before the hanger-ons, the young, beautiful boys who desire to use me for fame and fortune. He was here before my ex-wife, the terrible bitch who's sued me for attempted murder and "emotional trauma" just because I decided it would be a nice trick to try to shoot an apple off of her head. He was here before the years of drug abuse and bodily mistreatment complied to form a saggy, wilted man. Every time I write a verse, I silently dedicate it to Lucifer. He is my morning star, and he shines oh so bright. It is a battle to convince the veterinarian that he shouldn't be put to sleep. They are all little Mengeles, vets. That's why I started going to a holistic medicine man located on the ass-end of Long Island. We chant and stomp around the room, Lucifer in my arms, cannabis steaming out of large pots, the pony-tailed head of the medicine man swinging side to side like the pendulum of Father Time. We do this once a week. I believe it has extended Lucifer's lifespan. When he dies, I will have him stuffed and placed on my mantle. In my will, he is to be buried with me.
The thing about writing poetry is that there is no method. If you have a method, you are lost. I just scribble shit down on the page, and if it sounds good, I keep it. Many have analyzed the meaning of my poetry and written extensive works dedicated to their interpretations. Hey assholes, here's a hint: it doesn't mean shit. It means whatever you think it means, I guess, but it's all a happy accident. I create because I am; what I create is irrelevant. The work itself is a product of the artist, and you take the artist away, well, then the work becomes meaningless. I realize this is ass-backwards from how you literary critics usually do things. That's okay. I can't think of a more meaningless occupation than "literary critic." I'm currently writing an epic poem dedicated to my cat. It's about his struggles with kidney stones and his failing libido. Good luck with that one. I can't wait to see what you all come up with.
The only things I care about are cats, drugs, and boy-love. I have no higher literary ambitions. I'm just a thing, a creative thing, and that's all I'll ever be. I'm going to go do some cocaine now. Have fun reading my "poetry."