D.O.W (Death of Writing)

I went to a writing festival once,

stepped in and was presented with an aging, toothless, mutton-chopped hippy

who told me that today’s writing lacks authenticity.

Next to him was a pretty young hipster chick who agreed and

said she only writes on a typewriter.

(I reckon they went home together)

I strode through the stalls of limited press,

small press, limited release, avant-garde, brand new, shunning success,

can’t-stress-this-enough: ‘we won’t sell a single copy’,

only-in-this-to-fade-into-obscurity publishers

who convinced me not to submit

‘cause my pants weren’t plaid and my shirt was clean.

Then came a speech by an experienced writer,

(the only one at the gig with a book deal)

bangin’ on about technique and form,

ignored by the crowd who only came

to network and snake into a spot on Oprah.

I attended a workshop on blogging and new media,

lead by some cock with a  moustache and clear-lensed wayfarers,

who ran Australia’s most successful site on the writing scene.

He recommended appropriate SEO tagging for Google

(to up your hit count).

I busted out, threw my chair at his fucked up hair-

cut and screamed “A MAN IS NOT AN INTERNET”.

I was escorted out by burley bow-tied bastard,

who lead me into an alley and blindfolded me so I couldn’t see

him stealing this last line.

If you read this poem,

but don’t agree,

then fuck off and congratulations on writing the next Harry Potter.

Cunt.

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