Wednesday, 19 February 2014

But why mum, why? Why? But why? But why is that? Why?

So. Questions.

Apparently when I was three years old I tormented the living daylights out of every person I constantly came into contact with by constantly asking; why? But why is that? To every explanation given I could have further why's. I'm surprised I made it to adulthood alive. I still do it to some extent. Why does it have to be that way? Why do I HAVE to do the housework? Why do I have mice? It might be a little maddening but I like to question entrenched beliefs which I don't think it necessarily a bad thing. I'm still like a dog with a bone about it as well.

As poets and writers I think the question 'why?' is a necessary one. We need to challenge whether we are writing something fresh and if not why not? We need to look around us and maybe shake things up a little by breaking the rigidity of society's paradigms by asking, why does it have to be like that? Which can bring forth interesting ideas which you can expand on in your poetry.

Another question may be; why do I have to describe a situation in that way? If you're describing a scene maybe look at it as if you are looking through the eyes of say, the cat, and instead of describing it in the first way that comes to mind perhaps challenge yourself to describe the scene in a fresh way (not too fresh we did purple prose last week).

We need to learn our craft before we can pull it apart of course. Like the writer's advice 'learn the rules and then break them'. But always ask 'why?'

A question that recently infuriated me was 'Why do people believe everything they read on the internet?' and from that I got this poem, it's unpolished but here goes;

Conspiracy theorist

Silhouetted in a plasma glow on his swivel soapbox
he crouches forward, keyboard in lap, eyes like a preying fox
 furious upon his quest to educate us stupid people
referring to those who don't believe his crap as merely 'sheeple'
He's convinced that 911, 7,7 were in inside jobs
That there's poison in the toothpaste you shove into your gobs
Lizard people walk the earth, there's poison in the sky
Illuminati run the planet, everything is a lie

Cherry picking science that fits (but of course it's all conspired)
Painting a picture of a world where all our fellow men are liars
He's done his research plenty, with lots of youtube videos,
 Relies on his  gut instinct too, there's something wrong, he just 'knows'
Now if he ever left the house and did serious research,
I'd might have more respect for him upon his 'truther' search
It isn't truth he's looking for, but superiority
So he spends his days on David Ike's site, drinking lots of tea
To share it all on his Facebook and for youtube comment fights
There may be a conspiracy but I'm sure his theory's trite
Militant athiests chemtrailing angels, no I won't bite.
This argument would never end, it's circular, eternal
No requests for books for him or subscription to a journal
No chatting to some witnesses or an expert point of view
They're in on it and because you don't believe him you are too,
Opinions taken from easy to digest hyperbolic blogs
Constructed into theories why his life's gone to the dogs

The truth is in the outside world, the one at which he's leery
Go and ask some experts sunshine, go find your own damn theory
But he won't do that either, nope, their out to get him you see
He knows too much he's a threat to national security,
He eyes his mum suspiciously as she brings another brew
They already know he's on to them, have they got to her too?

His is a circular argument , everyone's in on it
from simple explanation a cunning plot he'll try to knit.
Crafting spurious connections, and driving himself crackers
I for one would like to drop-kick him squarely in the knackers
Yes society does not sit right, his blind-sight is not wrong
advertising  and the media, they sing a bullshit song
The government is lying, corporations and  big Pharma
guessing fantasy motivations doesn't make him calmer
The opposite, he sits and swells devoid of vitamin D
His stress and paranoia grow amidst conspiracies

So he'll set these sheeple right on-line, he likes to mock and goad
Ignoring bills that kill free speech and food banks down the road
Fracking under his mum's house, his nan without much heat
But we're all sheeple now you know, no matter what we bleat
A shiny foil hat he wears, to keep out waves, it's belting

He'd better take it off soon though, I think his brain is melting.



Colin Davies said...

I loved this poem on the night and love it more now.


Ashley R Lister said...

I have a student in my class and you're describing him perfectly. I daren't show this to him. Ever.

Great poetry.