The Writing Funk

"Funk" is a polysemous word. It's a genre of rock n' roll that sonically trundles along with boisterous basslines and bouncy, erotic rhythms (the picture of James Brown seems apropos). "Funk" can also be synonymous with "being in a funk" or "being down in the dumps". For the purposes of this entry, I would like to draw upon the ethos of the latter definition (hence the appearance of James Brown once again).

The Poem:

Alas! The word can not be coaxed
out of its hiding place in the panache
electro-mansion of brain-matter, and
the syntax is like an old salad in the refrigerator
of listlessness. And so the "writing funk" spreads
like a noxious gas in the body of ephemeral
indolence (and existence). The fingers can't find the thought;
the thought can't find the fingers. Communication breakdown, oh no!
Is the creative leaving the created? What is going on?
Will the funk permanently work black magic on
the crystalline cognitions, and will the hex it casts
fully bring to a halt the locomotion of the liquid imagination?
I hope not. Such a fate seems monstrous and brackish,
like an oil-spill everlasting.

Here is where I stand for now. Maybe tonight's mexican food excursion will jar loose the vice grips of inertia? Spice and flatulence and jokes: a strange amalgam that creates the quintessential medicine? Only time will tell.