Brilliant Rubbish



Every writer secretly thinks they’re rubbish.

While, at the same time, they secretly think they’re brilliant.

When you start out fractured….you may as well stay with it….run with it.

Brilliant Rubbish

There are some lines which you simply cannot surpass for creativity. I hear them randomly – in cafes, on the bus, thru an open window…

Only snippets really.

But snippets intriguing enough to try and construct ….something, around them.

Some recent examples;

“some of my best conversations involve corsets…”

“Hippos don’t really fly all that well.”

“Well, what else can you do when your sarongs go missing?”

“I just crawled out of bed like a sleep addicted marsupial.”

“…and just put the trees in the fridge.”

And so, I march bravely to my drummer (odd little freak that he is) and embrace my brilliant rubbish.

 (Its better if you imagine this in a kind of smoke-filled basement  Beatnik Café scene. Snap instead of clap…get into it…groove with me.  Or…ummm.. not.)

“Hippos corseted by The Man

Try to fly but the System keeps them down on the ground

Insomniac maniac wrong in their sarongs

Missing the freedom, lost Mother Gaia

Forests cut down, packaged up and sold in the frozen food section”

(bongo solo)


OK. Maybe brilliance is not close.  Not even a little bit. Or even in the same neighborhood.

But…it is so eyewateringly FRUSTRATING to hear a phrase that catches your ear, crawls Ceti eel- like into your brain, and goes….
*this is where you hold your breath in anticipation*


Back to the bongos I go……
 *artwork by Thomas C. Fedro*

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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