Monday, 16 March 2015

The Poetry of Porn

74 days porn-free.

I wrote a poem about porn. As I mentioned before, much of (my) porn addiction centres around idleness, boredom and procrastination. They say 'idle hands do the Devil's work'. Well, I don't believe in the Devil (unless you count Simon Cowell) but I can see in this idiom a certain amount of truth if we take 'the Devil's work' to be anything bad and/or counter-productive.

Sitting about with nothing to do (I have been injured again, this time mildly more severely) and the internet right there can make the temptation to look at porn unbearable. Also, when there are other things you should be doing (like writing comedy, for example) porn offers you the perfect escape. At the click of a tab, you can be immersed for hours on end, forgetting your more pressing duties.

So how am I managing to avoid it? Please welcome, ladies and gents, my blog. I am now devoting most of the time I would have been spending looking at porn – apart, bien sur, from the veritable multitude of hours I hemorrhage twatting about on the FB and Tinder – to writing this blog. This means the blog is serving a multi-faceted purpose. Not only is it keeping me occupied through long days of nothing, it is giving me an outlet for my thoughts and helping me achieve the aim of writing something (hopefully) funny on a regular basis.

I said before that I had been trying to spend more time writing, playing guitar and basically doing anything other than looking at fuck vids on the interweb. Here, then, are some of the results. I write poetry from time-to-time and I try not to take it too seriously. And I have no intention of becoming a 'contender, Charlie'* I do find, though, that the effort to distil an idea through economy of expression can be an excellent way of dealing with thoughts and feelings I might otherwise have trouble articulating. They are no more than ditties really (they always rhyme because I am, at heart, a child) but I hope they bring you, Reader dear, a modicum of enjoyment.

* I actually performed at a 'stand-up' poetry night recently in London. The poets, although (in general) undeniably talented, were almost like self-parodies; all shabby coats and unkempt locks, clutching half-drunk pints of Foster's while they 'bore their soul' to their assembled acolytes. To be frank, I found them (and the night) pretentious. More than this, though, I found their posturing disingenuous. (Do they shed the same fierce, fragile tears at every performance? Or am I a massive cynic?) They were cold and unwelcoming to me when the found I was a comic, as if they don't crave the very same recognition (adulation?) and applause. But, like the Murphy's... etc.

Anyway, enough with the apologies, here we bloody go.




Lover, Lover, Lover


I met her in my youth.
Before I knew the world.
I found in her a truth;
My sexuality unfurled.

She lured me in with promises
Of things I'd never known.
And, in the absence of sweet kisses,
Gave me lust to enjoy alone.

I knew I could always find her,
At any time of need.
I knew I could always have her;
I never had to plead.

Doe-eyed and compliant;
Sultry-silent on her knees;
Unselfish, tame, reliant.
She would only ever please.

Now, I can have her when I want her,
She'll do all I want and more.
She's my dirty little secret:
My filthy private whore.

I've tried many times to leave her.
I know her medicine is bad.
Yet somehow I'm always back to her,
Panting, wanton; driven mad.

She keeps me for herself.
What need I of any other?
Sitting seductive on the shelf;
My always-only lover.

And who is this mistress, you may wonder?
Please, don't look so forlorn.
You've guessed; you need not ponder.
Her name is Hardcore Porn.


Wayne Carr, 2015

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