The Pill Vs. The Springhill Mine Disaster

It should come as no surprise by now that I love Richard Brautigan. Almost to the point of being creepy.
Some of his work has made me very happy, some has made me not as happy. This collection of poems, The Pill Vs. The Springhill Mine Disaster makes me not as happy.

It is filled with goofy poems like this:

December 30

At 1:03 in the morning a fart
Smells like a marriage between
An avocado and a fish head.

I have to get our of bed
To write this down without
          My glasses on.

Or, the only poem I’ve read that is dedicated to fellatio:

I’ve Never Had It Done so Gently Before
                                          For M

The sweet juices of your mouth
Are like castles bathed in honey.
I’ve never had it done so gently before.
You have put a circle of castles
Around my penis and you swirl them
Like sunlight on the wings of birds.

Yep. Those are the ones that I read and I’m like… where is my Brautigan? Where is the lyrical Brautigan with his specific way of writing that makes me want to hug his work? I didn’t get that from any of the poems that were like the aforementioned.

But, there were some that had that Brautigan-ness to them that made me smile and take a second to think about what I had just read.

Love Poem

   It’s so nice
To wake up in the morning
   All alone
And not have to tell somebody
   You love them
When you don’t love them
    Any more.


Your Catfish Friend

If I were to live my life
In catfish forms
In scaffolds of skin and whiskers
At the bottom of a pond
And you were to come by
    One evening
When the moon was shining
Down into my dark home
And stand there at the ends
    Of my affection
And think, “It’s beautiful
Here by this pond.   I wish
    Somebody loved me,”
I’d love you and be your catfish
Friend and drive such lonely
Thoughts from your mind
And suddenly you would be
    At peace,
And ask yourself, “I wonder
If there are any catfish
In this pond?   It seems like
A perfect place for them.”

Do you see the difference? I mean, its pretty obvious. These last two examples have that strange sadness and absurdity that draw me to Brautigan in the first place. I guess I just don’t know what he was trying to do writing about blow jobs and farts...

On to reading!

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