Last week’s Seven Voices theme was ‘colossus’. I ended up interpreting this a bit loosely and writing a response to this comment on a Guardian article entitled ‘As Emma Rice departs, the Globe has egg on its face – and no vision’. The commenter obviously didn’t think much of Emma Rice, nor of quite a lot of things, it seems. I lifted the wonderfully grotesque line Get an excuse for a working class artist to splatter it with ironic bodily fluids, adapted it slightly, and turned it into a pruntiform; a cousin of the acrostic, the pruntiform is a modern poetic form which uses each word of its first line consecutively as the first word of each subsequent line. It’s quite a sticky poem, so please wash your hands afterwards.


User ID0353779 (Codename: Colossal Prick) reveals his thoughts on the untimely departure of Emma Rice as artistic director of the Globe

Get an excuse for a working class artist to splatter ironic bodily fluids!
An orgy of my fears, the stupid things that I love to hate in my loud voice.
Excuse the mess? I love the mess, I miss the fluids, I’m dry inside, I’d kill
for a cup of the blood that runs in you, a thimble of your full-bodied spit,
a pinprick droplet of anything, I’m so thirsty. I try to feel things but it’s not
working, every time I come close the dogs of scorn start to bare their teeth.
Class consciousness? I flunked it. My horse is so high my head’s in the clouds,
artist-what-the-fuckery spewing out of my ears and coming down as flaccid rain.
To you I’m just another keyboard-biter with a stick up his arse, a
splatter of roadkill opinions with a PDF of Butcher’s Copy-editing who says
“ironic” like it’s a swearword, and I am, but I just want to be picked up
bodily and churned like so much duck butter until I come to a pulp and the
fluids start to flow again. I’m just a thirsty man!


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