The early days of an obsolete medium

So here it is, the first proper post. The rituals of the blogosphere would expect one to comment on the hot topics of the day, in the guise of an amateur version of cnn, which, as we know, has become so much cooler (therefore more reliable) than cnn itself. Amateur cool, there´s a thought. Google it up, sex shows up left, right and centre. Am I missing some subtlety of the English language?

Fine, let us get it out of the way. I dutifully comment on Britney’s MTV comeback last night, already hailed as a monumental blunder that will go down in pop history as a serious contender for the top spot on the hit list of most monumental pop blunders ever.

See what’s wrong with this picture?

Britney’s blunder feels calculated. It feels like Britney has yet again understood what it’s all about these days. Pop Idol and the like are living proof that bad karaoke is all the rage, in the name of hysterics echoing through the nation in unison. Britney has masterfully turned herself into a zombie caricature of herself, and thus made the headlines yet again. Not a word would have been uttered at the front pages had she been in acrobatic shape.

Now for the serious stuff.

Here is a poem written for M.W. a while ago. Updated today in order to fit the current narrative loop, thus dearly dedicated to D.F. Both can be honoured to share the bill, despite never having met – both are extraordinary.
Sorry, no metrics, I’m not that good, it’s not that good – and it blatantly romaticises what may simply be the early days of old age – but the feeling is sincere and it’s here. Enjoy AYOR.

A LONGING FOR BELONGING
(for D.S and M.W
at different times, in distinct dimensions)

Having rendered my heart hostage in home-baked fantasies and sweat-drenched anxieties
for far too long,
Having negotiated and renegotiated long-term peace deals with my handful of past lovers,
no matter how briefly we crossed,
regardless of whether we ever met,

Having craved so many love stories that never had the slightest chance of even being uttered…
You have performed the surgery.
I no longer apologise for my red blood.

Every single pore of every man’s pores longs for sensuality, every day, everywhere,
a constant hunger for beauty, an insatiable hunger for unconditional approval,
a longing for belonging that will never have enough.

Yet in this constant turmoil of perpetual need
through your visceral joy and ever-so-warm unashamedness
You have performed the surgery.
You have shown me the carnal version of self-respect.

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