An Attempt At Ars Poetica

no rhyme no rhythm just fragmented thoughts caught mid air in a net and bottled up in a cage where the circus ringmaster with a whip of whimsical arbitariness tames them down and parades them in a somewhat meaningful pattern disciplined unruly curs hoping that the camouflage is good enough for them to be considered deceptive enough to be called a poem or something ars poetica an experiment at taming down unwanted thoughts a mere experiment into verbalising scattered nightmares no metre no syllable counts or forms just words meaningless horrible words that contradict each other laid down upon a white sheet of paper one that might have been more useful in making at least twelve cigarette joints souren mondal 6.2.16