Star Wars Crapisode VIII

Well my nigs, if The Phantom Menace was a disastrous date with a beautiful stranger then The Force Awakens was date rape. After seeing the latter I was extra-pissed at having to buy the ticket in advance, in a theater with assigned seating. Never again.

If you’ve seen the trailer for The Last Jedi you already know it’s going to be a bad clone of The Empire Strikes Back. What gave it away? The snow fox, a still frame of a line of parked AT-ATs, and knowing Disney won’t take risks.

I don’t care about any of the characters, new or old. Rey is a poor replacement for Luke. Whether she turns evil or not makes no difference.

Hamill has said he entirely disagrees with the direction they took Luke. My guess is he won’t even leave Irish Island or wherever the fuck he’s hiding until Crapisode 9.

If Finn had been White, you would wonder what his character is even doing there. Same for the new X-wing pilot, who has scenes outside the cockpit yet is less memorable than Wedge or even Porkins.

The trailer also implies that Leia just stands in place on the bridge of a ship while her jug-eared, tantrum-throwing Vader-wannabe son locks missiles on her. TFA did nothing with her character, now she’s CG and it makes no difference.

Anyway, that’s that.

 

 

“poetry forever”

I remember the moment
I gave up
poetry forever.

Clicking through the
latest online issue
of a ‘zine,
looking for
my submission
like anyone seeks
their own face
first
in a group photo,
I stumbled across a poem
I’d written
that I didn’t remember writing.

It was clever, edgy, spritely, etc., dancing like a weapon-y
ballerina
sober on sunlight and pink socks.

I loved it
like anyone loves
their own kid
most
in a school play,
except
my poem was over there
and the one I thought I’d written was written by
someone else.

I didn’t need a DNA test to know
my words were
nothing
if some random asshole could Xerox
“my” madness
“my” fingerprints
“my” unique turds
so much
I thought they were mine.

So I walked away from
poetry forever,
it was easy,
I didn’t love anyone
and still don’t.

The gods had found a replacement
for a replacement
and now that that was settled
I could concentrate on my first love:
jerking off.

Trouble is, between poetry
and
jerking off

no one can tell the difference.

Which is fine,
there’s no money
in either.

 14 Jun 06