Post by XomicronOk, how many of you people who hang out in these poetry newsgroups actually
like Will Dockery's "poems"?
None. Occasionally a troll will drop a complimentary word.
This is the Usenet equivalent of the school cafeteria prank of
dropping a coin into the jukebox, selecting "Orange Blossom
Special", and bolting for the exit. Occasionally, a newbie who
has never read a poem before will say something profound like
"neato" or "kewl, dude" (such technical language is the mark of
a serious poetry critic, I'm sure). Once this newcomer reads a
poem by anyone else, though, s/he immediately outgrows the Dockery.
While Will will, from time to time, chance upon an interesting
line, he invariably buries it under what others have described
as "unspeakable shit". Even more aggravating to a reader are his
"work habits":
Will's line breaks are determined strictly by toke.
Strophe breaks are occasioned by a need to relight the hash pipe.
Each poem ends when he finishes his stash.
To illustrate, consider taking the following simple test:
THE WILL DOCKERY CHALLENGE
The following are three "poems" written, posted and reposted
ad nauseum by Will. They appeared in exactly this order on his
web site. The challenge is simple: decide where one poem ends
and the next begins.
Sounds easy, right? <Insert evil laugh here>
You can mark your guess by simply inserting a blank line
between "poems". The originals were mercifully short by Will's
"standards" and none of them had strophe breaks. Apparently, the
"inspiration" had become dessicated in the back pocket of his bell
bottoms while they dried on the heating vent; thus, it burned too
hot to require any relighting.
Good luck!
The "poems":
Toys toys toys,
among these flowers.
Little Angel,
shaven and beautiful,
falls, smacks her behind on the cement
a couple of times.
She's mystical, punk,
and her magic transforms this street
to Bourbon Street.
Three lesbian pirates walk by,
Spaniard girls,
far east traders.
I think of Edith the bag lady,
she's bored with her bags,
her bag is to split me open,
tear me apart with pleasure,
but I am far far away.
Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
living with the Lion and his silver lady.
There's art,
Joseph on his bicycle,
grampa singing his heart out.
But my grampa's in heaven with a ballpeen hammer,
breaking all the mirrors.
Skulls, crossbones,
the Raven does cross stitch, Two Flagler blondes pass,
I look up from my writing just in time.
I see them looking back smiling,
my heart skips a beat.
There is art, the wind is artistic,
the colors so very perfect.
Silver moon like no other,
people shifting and speaking.
Artist ladies,
a street that comes inward.
Cacaphony of music, shout, sounds,
jazz blowing in the wind over my head.
Fast Chicago blues from the tavern,
cars and yells and click clack,
walking sounds and the whir of wind.
Jarrod and Dawn have closed the coffee shop,
so I sit ---.
Then a car Hypoltia rushes by with 70's soul blast,
fast and then it's gone.
I saw death on Saint George Street,
in the doorway of the tavern,
on All Hallows Eve.
Electric fire blood,
remembering Megan's crystals,
spoken of in her poetry.
Moonchild native of the dreamtown.
Going on with a spiral of thought,
remembering golden Elaine.
Flash of sparks of memory,
unfolded to other causes and times.
Problematic possibilities,
paranoic perspective,
peopled by children in an ancient city.
She's bored with her bags.
Her bag is to split me open,
tear me apart with pleasure,
but I am far far away.
Ten mama birds --- pelicans,
flying in formation, following daddy.
Sitting on the rocks
is Stoneman the Cat.
Watching for fish,
sniffing for Ravens,
brunettes are his favorite dish
Ah, you grren eyed little fiend,
my friend, have a hamburger,
strut your tail
Primordial predatory animal.
Grey goatee --- jump up on the table,
you purr like a Harley.
You nuzzle on my pen ---
I'm trying to write, cat!
While you wanna sleep on my arm.
Dream well, Pison.
As I told you before,
as I told her before.
You two are filled with similarities.
A wrinkle in time,
one of he favorites.
She was in love with Bob Dylan,
saw him in Athens in '89.
Your green eyes,
completely different yet similar.
No not the same at all.
I loved you both once opon a time,
you are both part of the past.
Gone forever.
You both have the firey passion...
in both love, lust and hate.
I have seen and felt these,
in you and in her.
We used to talk all night,
we three,
you and her and I.
Now we hardly talk at all.
Overwhelming sudden love,
now overwhelming distance.
As I told you before,
as I told her before,
you two are filled with similarities.
You both haunt me tonight.
Answers at: http://www.angelfire.com/al2/dockery/index.html