Friday, 25 April 2014


Randolf was raised by two English professors in a small New England town. He was given the false impression from a young age that everyone should care about how he feels, so he became a poet. Since High School, he has been publishing the pointless drivel that comes out of him in whatever rag he can find. There seems to be an audience for the crap he writes, but it is mostly made up of other “poets” publishing in the same low-rent pits of narcissistic literature periodicals. To wit:

Flower of Winter by Ràndolf – (Of course, he doesn't use his last name, and adds gratuitous accents.)


I am the apostate

I blaspheme with her touch

The warmth of her sigh

Is a bloom under the solstice.

Long, long night

Lonely no more:

The visions I once had

Are now at home in my temple.

And yet, the guilt


As a flower of winter

I mean: what the hell does that even mean? It's like David Lynch is sending texts to himself about... pleasuring oneself? Is he cheating on himself? I don't get it.

Anyway, back to Randolf. Chances are he'll also get his PhD in English Lit, once he finishes his MA, and then get a similar job to his parents (though through an endless string of course loads, never actually getting tenure - that's just the way the wind blows these days). And so the cycle continues.

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