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 RÃ ndolf – (Of
course, he doesn't use his last name, and adds gratuitous accents.)
Today
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
Wilts
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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