Proof that nobody can tell the difference between ‘art’ and ‘brain-fart’.

There is a new poem on our English noticeboard in school. It is titles ‘Baby Kittens’ and is signed off as ‘Hobnob’.

I know who it’s by. It’s by my friend (you may remember her as the one who pretended to be Irish).

Last summer, my friend got a little drunk while reading e-magazines, as you do. She noticed a poetry competition. And in all her drunken wisdom, she decided to dash off a poem as a joke and send it off. Bearing in mind that she deliberately tried to make this poem as ridiculous as possible, while being drunk.

She received an email a few days later asking for her permission to publish it.

I’m fairly sure that that proves that nobody can tell what good poetry is, as  clearly people cannot tell the difference between a work of genius and a drunken joke. Although the boundaries between those become very blurred with my friend, as she is extremely good at English.

Still, any poem which manages to get  a poem containing the word ‘forking’ (in the sense of cutlery sex) into a poetry competition and still be taken seriously has got to be worth something, right?

Aside from an excessive use of commas (Best example: ‘But, my, dad, is dead’), the poem itself is actually quite nice to read, due to the fact that it reads like a complete brain-fart. Which it is.


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