Your Failure To Enthuse Is Violence, Apparently
Mr Roy G Guzmán, whose tweet appears below, describes himself as “a marginalised writer,” and an “artist and influencer,” thereby signalling to lower beings both his suffering and his modesty. He’s also, it seems, a tad sensitive:
Note the gratuitous use of white woman. Perhaps that tells us something about Mr Guzmán’s poetic soul. A sample of Mr Guzmán’s creative output, titled Queerodactyl, is reproduced in full below. But before we venture further, you may wish to grip the arms of your chair:
My heart was a dystopian
berry budding in water tiger
lilies claiming
hocus-pocus wonder. I was broken
vanity, vixen vase, victorious tête-
à-tête — the Scrabble game nobody won
because the tiles aspired speculums.
Ocean-misaligned brook / brook-misaligned
agua
— where else could these gospels have dawned
if not in the bellies of men
hyenaing a becoming?
Twerking in church,
I outperformed the candles
diarized in the simpleminded annexation. Wussup,
Blastoise
with the veiniest homebound
pika-pika aim?
Wussup, Sims
Chumbawamba Family Portrait Simulation?
St. Sunny of the Sissies
beheld the bukkake throng
of mojo-coated cartilage
squandered
on the refurbished bunk
for new cetaceans. A dazzling jeremiad
shone me dead
until I gridlocked the algebraic expressions
of my body in question marks.
These syndicated fiyahs
stigmatized my herculean magma
shades,
but I held these walls apart,
every inch of my mascara cut off
apple pie.
You watched me hobble home
while the streets coalesced magenta. Tell Momma
the holes I cover with one error
swell — & there are only inadvertent landscapes
to dollop with nonetheless.
I’ll give you a moment to process that. To internalise its immensity.
Mr Guzmán tells us that he “holds degrees from the University of Minnesota, Dartmouth College, the University of Chicago, and the Honors College at Miami Dade College,” and is “pursuing a PhD in Cultural Studies (Comparative Studies in Discourse and Society) at the University of Minnesota.” Mr Guzmán is now violently blocking lots of people on Twitter.
Update, via the comments:
After dismissing the recent, rather negative appraisals of his poetry as driven by “toxic masculinity” and “(white) male fragility” – no other possibilities being conceivable, of course – Mr Guzmán has apparently retired from Twitter. We are, it seems, a terrible disappointment to him. Such are the travails of artistic genius. Or rather, such are the effects of spending so much time in the Clown Quarter of academia, where narcissism and flummery are indulged – and consequently being ill-prepared for anything approaching honesty.
Via sk60.
I still think about that.
I bet he does.
I bet he does.
He’s a delicate flower, too fine for this world.
He’s available for readings, by the way.
Guaranteed woke.
The poetry is very Titiana McGrath-esque.
I can think of no greater compliment.
Mr Guzmán is now violently blocking lots of people on Twitter.
Punchline of note. 🙂
Punchline of note. 🙂
He’s erasing so many voices.
The bukkake thongs sound interesting.
Oh wait, that’s not quite what he said.
Note the gratuitous use of white woman. Perhaps that tells us something about Mr Guzmán’s poetic soul.
That.
That.
It’s another illustration of why wokeness and identity politics hold such appeal, at least for certain types of people. They dovetail perfectly with obnoxious personalities and even the most ludicrous narcissism.
Apparently I have some of his poetry! It’s in the form of a bunch of magnetized words affixed to my refrigerator.
No doubt, count Mr. Guzmán among those who we’ve discussed before on these pages who believe that society needs to subsidize the existence of “artists and influencers,” particularly Mr. Guzmán, because we refuse to be “influenced” the way we should. And the only reason for that refusal is because we are “anti-art” and “anti-intellectual.”
Steel rods of reason through my head.
Salmon jumping… where jump I?
Camels on fire and spotted clouds.
Striped horses prance the meadow wild,
And rush on to drink at life’s fountains deep.
Life is Cream. I am puce.
Ching. Chang. Cholla.
How will Chumbawamba, the St. Sunny of the Sissies, ever hold back the bukkake throng? So exciting!
Twerking in church,
I outperformed the candles
OK. Related, then, Twerking For Peace.
I am having a hard time figuring how this mentality is any different than a bunch of primitives somewhere dancing around a fire to ward off evil spirits – aside from the neurotic narcissism, of course. All I know is that as far as climate justice goes, if I went outside and was “hip-shaking, fist-pumping, ass-twerking” because it is only in the 30s (F) here, my neighbors would rightly have me hauled off.
They wouldn’t insist you keep going, just for the laughs? :-p
I am having a hard time figuring how this mentality is any different than a bunch of primitives somewhere dancing around a fire to ward off evil spirits – aside from the neurotic narcissism, of course.
Cargo-culture politics.
I awoke and flung the tigers
Deep into that darkness retching
Cats – tormentor of my dreams
When I thought of the cats
Once I sat engaged and petting
In a kingdom full of dalmatians
‘Cats!’ said I, ‘thing of bullmastiff.’
My passion is the silent upchuck.
https://www.poem-generator.org.uk
Make it your own with random spacing, capitalization, and punctuation.
Mr Guzmán tells us that he “holds degrees from the University of Minnesota, Dartmouth College, the University of Chicago, and the Honors College at Miami Dade College,” and is “pursuing a PhD in Cultural Studies (Comparative Studies in Discourse and Society) at the University of Minnesota.”
And he still can’t write even half-decent poetry.
Make it your own with random spacing, capitalization, and punctuation.
Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
It’s because we’re jealous. 🙂
https://twitter.com/dreamingauze/status/1074151799903408128
It’s because we’re jealous. 🙂
Soon, we’ll be told this was Guzman’s plan all along: To gain exposure among the masses to Guzman’s profundity and initiate a grand poetry appreciation renaissance among us, the great unwashed.
It’s Vogon poetry, just less metrical. BTW, has anyone else noticed Twitter becoming ever more insistent to visitors that haven’t signed up?
I am having a hard time figuring how this mentality is any different than a bunch of primitives somewhere dancing around a fire to ward off evil spirits
Primitives didn’t have biodegradable confetti.
It’s in the form of a bunch of magnetized words affixed to my refrigerator.
You can imagine how much fun it was to duplicate his chosen formatting. That’s time I’ll never get back.
“BTW, has anyone else noticed Twitter becoming ever more insistent to visitors that haven’t signed up?”
“We’ve detected that JavaScript is disabled in your browser. Would you like to proceed to an older version of Twitter?”
Click the button, and bingo. You have to click through that page every time mind you, and video clips don’t play, but other than that’s it’s fine.
My phone’s a different story, though. It just doesn’t work at all on the Brave browser with all the tracking protection switched on. Like I care.
If anyone has trouble with comments not appearing, email me and I’ll rattle the spam filter.
Why is it twerking in a church and not say, just off the top of my head, a mosque? Now that would be edgy which is the premise of Mr Guzman’s work all along no?
Heh:
Also heh.
Mr Thompson I am not as worldly as yourself, your last link, can you in terms best describes a halal Jew as indicated by the Twitter handle?
He likes to mention if someone is white even when it’s totally irrelevant. Never a good sign.
It’s worth bearing in mind that these people aren’t aberrations or random inadequates. Their vanities are a result of prolonged exposure to the Clown Quarter, where such things are actively encouraged. People like Mr Guzmán – and as we’ve seen over the years, there are plenty of people eerily like Mr Guzmán – are the ideal end products of all that processing.
K..so this is OT…but no more OT than violence is to this guy’s poetry…though come to think of it, the wretching his “poetry” induces is its own violence…posting here because I can’t find the thread where this was discussed, though I’m fairly certain it was here, Psychology Today offers advice to the boy who was bullied for having the last name of Trump. Turns out it’s really the victim who is to blame for his misery…
Oh, there’s more. RTWT.
https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/resilience-bullying/201812/advice-bullied-kids-named-trump
I used to write poetry in my mid-teens, some of it pretty angst-ridden and much of it composed of fairly original but ultimately rather tedious imagery. However, I like to think that even at my most pubescent and febrile, I still had some notion of the traditional meaning of words. I don’t take a prescriptive view of language – words and syntax evolve with the times – but I don’t see how anyone could even look at the first few lines of the above poem without taking the view that the poet either doesn’t know or doesn’t care what many of the words he’s employing actually mean.
For example, berries don’t bud; and whilst conceivably a vase could contain a depiction of a vixen, it’s pretty obvious the poet is merely choosing words based on their initial letter and relying on the reader being so swept away by the rhythm as not to care.
At this point in my consideration of the poem, I also began to suspect that the poet doesn’t quite understand the rules of Scrabble, either.
Then it dawned on me that what might be going on here is that the poem (or at least the beginning — or possibly “hyenaing” — of it) was “inspired” by a game of Scrabble. Berry/budding, water/tiger, lilies/claiming, vixen/vase, ocean/agua/brook, etc., could all have come from a Scrabble board. Possibly the poet was so amused by the coincidence in the “misaligned”
that he decided to insult our collective intelligence with this kind of secular divination drivel. It would be just like the “cut-up” technique, only with less scope for creativity.
Just a theory.
It’s Vogon poetry
All that’s missing is the Poetry Appreciation Chair, but I’m sure that the left is designing them at this very moment.
If I internalise that word dumpster I’ll be stuck in the lavatory for a week.
Hey, what the world needs is a Woke Word-of-the-day Calendar. Today’s word is “Violence.” Bonus points for most out of context use of the word.
Fuzzy kittens, the implied violence of their existence causes me to block my dog from Twitter.
Just what the world needs: another *&^%$#g drip.
Apparently, the public’s failure to be impressed by Mr Guzmán’s poetry is not only “violent,” but also a consequence of “toxic masculinity” and “(white) male fragility.”
No other possibilities can be imagined, it seems.
Mr. Guzman’s poetry is the hazmat suit that protects against toxic masculinity. But the non-violent kind of hazmat suit.
Espresso violence
Americano style
“Room for cream?” asks the poet barista,
his fight for 15 button now faded.
“Yes, please,” I reply.
from The Reality Is Violent, by Hopp de Síngg
He’s a delicate flower, too fine for this world.
Too fine for Twitter too, it appears, as his page seems to be have been terminated, violently, no doubt. A shame, he was a national treasure.
Too fine for Twitter too, it appears, as his page seems to be have been terminated, violently, no doubt.
The pressures of stardom.
Primitives didn’t have biodegradable confetti.
Monkeys fling their feces at each other. I think there’s an obvious parallel.
The pressures of stardom.
True, true. Heavy lies the mantle of greatness.
True, true. Heavy lies the mantle of greatness.
Or maybe it’s a result of spending so much time in an absurd and pathological environment, in which narcissism and flummery are indulged, and consequently being ill-prepared for anything approaching honesty. (See also Dr Ben Pitcher, whose chosen habitat – also the Clown Quarter – apparently spared him from any feedback of an unflattering kind.)
– His poem, above:
TL:DR
Sorry. Time to buzz the tower. He wrote a load of boilerplate non-intelligible shite and crap. Hope he didn’t get paid for it, although I shan’t hold my breath there. Next time I see him, I’ll not restrain my natural tendency to be slightly outspoken. I was kind this time.
If not for the h8trs, Queerodactyl would be plundered as thoroughly as Yeats’ The Second Coming.
Seemed apt.