** Won't you please share the joy of WYFP by recommending?
WYFP is our community's Saturday evening gathering to talk about our problems, empathize with one another, and perhaps share advice. Everyone and all sorts of troubles are welcome. May we find peace and healing here. :-)
Folks, tonight, struggling with a bit of writer's block, I bring you the first ever (I think) Flarf WYFP.
"Flarf poetry," as defined by Wikipedia, is "an avant garde poetry movement of the late 20th century and the early 21st century. Its first practitioners practiced an aesthetic dedicated to the exploration of "the inappropriate" in all of its guises. Their method was to mine the Internet with odd search terms then distill the results into often hilarious and sometimes disturbing poems, plays, and other texts."
This makes it sound serious.
My own rules require entering a search term, then composing something out of only the language of the Google entries listed (without going to the page), in order, using something (occasionally only a single word) from each entry. Punctuation is totally mine. :)
In this case, of course, the search term was What's Your Fucking Problem? I apologize for the profanity of the results. It's Art, you know. Or maybe a little more like spam. I love spam. No, really.
*
Won't you please share the joy, Jealous Dog Boy? Never mind the Sex Pistols; when someone says "there are other important problems that are killing people now, like malaria," say: "What's your point? She's not much use anyway. Period." You are fucking wackjob. Maybe someone here has had that problem...
I don't know what's going on between you and some other bloggers but what's your fucking side of the story? 3.2 FUCK! You fucking pervert, and knowing where I live. WYFP Britney Spears?? You used to have no talent and you threw it all away... with all the world's problems successfully solved by peeing Biblical doctrine all over them, and I said, "what's your-- pardon me-- your fucking plan, then, if you don't like this?" Depending on what's going on, any one of us can go in and work on it.
Whoa. Whoa. New York City is not a nice place, I muttered, and then lowered my head. Asked a couple of bozos, "What's your nearest death experience? Or did I just BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIND?!"
If you've written a diary asking, "Hey Motherfucker, what's your fuckin' problem?", your problem is that you don't have an xbox 360. When you're under 13, well you're not the fucking only one. Charles Bukowski ain't your fucking pal first of all. Choices: privacy, smoking out of the window, thinking "I hate my job." Our planet is facing the greatest problems it's ever faced, ever. When the doors closed down, he turned around to look at me.
But I was still shocked when my sex therapist asked, "What's your stance on getting deals with labels, indy or major?" I heard his zipper go down. Deadly fucking serious. "What's your dream sequence?" This conversation ended 3 days ago and features enemy snipers in that arse end of Ireland. What's your sign? What's your drug of choice, you fucking idiot? Bring me the fucking horizon. I used to know this boy...
Leave the past to history; and with your other face, slash my new fucking hero, cuz you'll need AT LEAST balls, woman, and I never ever turn out to be true. I'm a misanthrope, politics suck, I'm gonna do a dance right in your reasoning.
Here's what's left. So fucking lame and broken, that I just couldn't sing about my fucking problems, you know? I haven't got a problem. I'm on my way to your place.
*
What's YOUR fucking problem tonight?