oozing yolk plop
How gross is that?
It has suddenly dawned on me what this world needs more of, oh so much more. First of all you all need more advice and wisdom. Don’t worry I have that covered – so stay with me and I’ll share that with you. No charge. Second of all the world simply needs more lists. So here is a dangling listicle of advisement pleasure:
I guarantee that if you follow my advice you will be a blogger. Mainly because if you follow my advice you will create a blog – and so it follows you are then a blogger. The successful part has nothing to do with me or my listical of blogging wisdom.
Carry on and keep blogging.
It is silent here.
No laughter. No voices. No keyboard clicks of wonderment and joy.
It is empty here. Mostly it has always been that way. The longer I do this blogging act of desperation, the wiser I become as to my own talent and star-power. I got nothing.
I’ve tried the various techniques to build audience and traffic. Did the hours and hours of visits to other blogs and other sites. Leaving traces of my own passing. Calling cards and invitations for others to come back here and play. Natch.
I posted two poems yesterday. I have over 3000 theoretical followers. I cross-posted and re-posted across a dozen other sites and social media hubs. Wait what is that sound? Do you hear it. It is only the wind whispering over the Ethernet, the wind chortling ever so softly: “loser.”
Yesterday’s grand total views: 32
And over half of those views are here: http://merlinspielen.com/2013/06/18/fear-of-apples/
I guess I should take solace that I own the searches for Fear of Apples and Malusdomesticaphobia. I am a google god!
Why do I bother? Been 4 years of posting now. Almost daily. I should probably stop wasting my time. Or at least stop fretting about how many people read these words.
So tell me is anyone actually reading these posts? Or should I just pack it all in and fuggedaboutit…
I know mainly what I am doing wrong is writing crappy meaningless poetry. Without any pretty pictures. I should include pictures. Pretty pictures of naked women to accompany my poems. Of course if I had naked women to to take pictures of, well I wouldn’t be writing poetry. I’d have other things on my mind. Or at least on my face…oh now maybe that will get me some more hits! Salacious delicious sexual content.
Okay carry on then – did my regular angst-dump on WTF am I doing writing this crap and paying for the privilege of hosting.
The reality is sinking in at this point. I am quite adequate with words. I’m just not very good at it. And no matter what I will always scrawl out random stanza’s that leak from another dimension.
Yeah I know: Life isn’t fair, and that is just the way it is. I saw Labyrinth so I get the life-lesson already.
“The challenge,” said the bard, “is simply stress;
applied with timing right and words still fresh.
He handed quill and ink for me to say
how I compare you to a summer day.
…, iambic mumble penned in metric botch
poetic mangled mayhem — meaning lost ….
I cannot write a lyric verse. Just watch
as stanzas freely given form are tossed
in steaming heaps of verbal dung and stench.
I best surcease from writing with a wrench.
The bard now hangs his head in shame
because my verse is much too lame.
(Veni, Vidi, Vici: Latin for I came, I saw, I conquered. See Julius Caesar…)
i can see
we are infinite
you do as you do
while I do too
and back again
up and down
while all the world’s
by a few good pens
I have done nothing
I have said nothing
that hasn’t already
i can see
we are infinite
and then I