[continued from previous message]   
      
   >>> waking up still feeling the effects of the previous night's drugs), I   
   >>> have *ZERO* interest in it.   
   >>   
   >> It should have been thrown "at" the floor in English class. Big f'n F   
   >> grade.   
   >   
   > It got published in the school paper -- with a color illustration of a   
   > mouse... or a rat... or something.   
      
   That was awful too.  No one gave a rat's patootie about that   
   publication. It was just to keep the kids (and the ones in their 20s)   
   off the streets for a few hours.   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>> I don't know who is speaking.  I don't know who he's speaking to.  I   
   >>> don't know what he's prattling on about.  Hell, I don't even know if   
   >>> he's here or there.   
   >>   
   >> "But who knows where or when?"   
   >   
   > The twaddle he is twaddling he was twaddling then.   
   It's like he froze at a grade school level. It was the best of times.   
   >   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>> And, as a consequence, I cannot invest any interest (much less feelings)   
   >>> into his (non-) story.   
   >>   
   >> The writing is beyond bad and not something anyone should be proud to   
   >> show others.   
   >   
   > Haven't you seen the reviews for his collected poetry book?  Stinky G   
   > reviewed it twice, Danny Barfly reviewed it too.  And even Will Donkey   
   > threw in his two cents.   
   We wonder if George Dance has tired of footing the bill for all the   
   copies that Dockery gives away.   
   >   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>>>>>>>  When do I get on up the road?   
   >>>   
   >>> "Get on up the road"?  That's not even decent backwoods slang.  When   
   >>> speaking about reaching a destination (literal, spiritual, etc.), one   
   >>> says "down" the road.  "Up" the road implies back to the start of your   
   >>> journey.   
   >>   
   >> Unless one is lying by the side of the road, and the asphalt is quite   
   >> thick.  Didn't the speaker fall down in previous stanzas?   
   >   
   > He fell down up the rode over there   
   > While lying here and wondering where   
   > his life had passed him by   
   > like a streaking hitchhiker on a streaming highway.   
   Live stream, trout stream, urine stream.   
   >   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>>>>>>>  The light sped out   
   >>>>>>>>  like a fire-fly   
   >>>   
   >>> "firefly" is not hyphenated.   
   >>>   
   >>> So the dimming, streaking, hitchhiking light is now a hastily departing   
   >>> firefly?   
   >>   
   >> Fireflies are very slow fliers.   
   >   
   > Okay.  A relatively hasty firefly.   
   Mutants from the pollution in the Chattahoochee.   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>> Pick ONE metaphor and stick with it.   
   >>   
   >> That's like asking Mr. Dockery to stick with one pronoun.   
   >   
   > Or to write three complete sentences in a row.   
   >   
   >   
   >>>>>>>>  like gravestones   
   >>>>>>>>  never noticed   
   >>>>>>>>  never seen.   
   >>>   
   >>> OMFG!   
   >>>   
   >>> Now the dimming, streaking, hitchhiking, hastily departing firefly like   
   >>> light has turned into unseen gravestones???   
   >>   
   >> And they are up on the road!   
   >   
   > Gravestones! Gravestones everywhere!   
   > Over here and over there   
   > Up the road and at the floor   
   > And here's some new ones coming through the door!   
      
   That sounds like New Orleans, where the caskets float.   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>> I can't wait to discover what the morph into next.   
   >>>   
   >>>>>>>>  Like marbles   
   >>>>>>>>  spilling from shattered minds.   
   >>>   
   >>> There it is!   
   >>>   
   >>> They went from dimming, to streaking, to hitchhiking, to hastily   
   >>> departing fireflies, to unseen gravestone, to marbles spilling from   
   >>> shattered minds.   
   >>   
   >> How many people can relate to marbles spilling out of minds?  Lost their   
   >> marbles?  That's a literal interpretation that is typical of immature,   
   >> cliched thinking.   
   >   
   > Marbles spilling at my floor   
   > I've no marbles anymore   
   > I'd shoot for keepsies but I'm too poor   
   > Got no marbles anymore.   
   They jumped ship.   
   >   
   >>>   
   >>> And this is the end of the poem?   
   >>>   
   >>> What was the topic?  The speaker lying in the "Here" or "There"?  The   
   >>> unknown person he was addressing?  Someone's life having passed -- or   
   >>> passed by?  Contemplating returning to... something?  Or the bizarre   
   >>> transformation of the morning light?   
   >>>   
   >>> I would like to say that this is bad, even for you, but it's really just   
   >>> par for the course as Donkey poems go: incoherent, incompetently   
   >>> written, and terminally uninteresting.   
   >>>   
   >>   
   >> Did you note the title of the poem, as shown in the Carverlite Crappage?   
   >>  "SHATT, RD" - The title describes the writing perfectly!   
   >   
   > I'd been wondering about that.   
   >   
   > I think that Will's dazzling editor couldn't quite make out the title   
   > and improvised.   
   >   
   > Or maybe the "E" key on Will's typewriter was broken.   
      
   No, that "SHATT, RD" was Michael Ehrhart's joke on Will Dockery, whom he   
   hated.  It means "Shit Road," "Shat in the Road," "Shat Turd" or even   
   "[That] Shit Wrote."  We think it may have actually been Cujo in   
   disguise as Ehrhart.   
      
   --   
      
   --- SoupGate-DOS v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)