Against literary Paperisms: Prose and poetry as Dead Artisteries, by Anish O Cornel

Man is but tired of prose, since the lust to sit before his table with the illuminator to bifurcate such a highfalutin narrative of endless wonders exist no more. His eyes are weary of letters. Yet, the writer speaks prose in mechanical deluge; sets of binoculars, specs, to cloak the skeleton of every graph, wether with the beauty of it or for its beauty's sake. The appreciation of it does not scape its bounds. Plenteous jeremiads and ecclesiastes, satirical scorches and comic intellects all for the academia of man only but grow or die within one circumscription and walks no further. The writer pours out his inks upon papers of blood-with papers and inks- yet the whole kingdome which they are to hit do not dare to touch. Even those who 'dear' to touch it, only speak of it's beauty, beauteous madness, madness or constructive attempts at purifying the evils embedded in forms and souls and not it's kineasthetic through-put in the reality of resultative change, since no change-in soothe- is witnessed or caused (tho' attempted). Even this which I much prettified in order that it be emboldened before the world, doubt I if it would be bought, loaned, taken or even borrowed, for the sake of what it carries. But at this hour, Life is but pathetic. Too many faces there be for one heart to dear. Withering hands of the world are too cold to hand either the fire or the coal. Clouds gather with such thickness, weaving silks and drapes 'gainst Light. And as darkness draws nigh, we hardly see what differences persist beneath. How pathetic a world! Behold! A new Army has risen in curtains of man's interior walls, to woo him to a court of custom which he shares with his house-holds; the largest cycle, (almost fallen by this Army) into a pool of samness. And a sameness of tradition and taste appear before us. Poetry is the wickedest, wretchedest and 'more' ironic of the other. Perhaps, if I may ask, what evil reeks in poetry saying to a rebrobate lone-wolf, 'stealing is bad', by such lightness found in a light verse or verse of light? This manner of tongue, I believe is too simplistic enough for that one. Yet the poet with paromeia, and exaggerated paintings; rhymes, rythms, figures and runic comparisons, falsifies and puffs up undue emotions; emotions vile enough to drag the minded soul to say how beautiful or lovely it is and nothing mor. But the most instrumental, and productive of them, lies in my heart. This is nearest to man all day long. It catches man by his eyes and ears. With this one in the world, man can never dugde. I respect him because he does not recede in coffins and graves of mere scripts and crippled papers. It walks and talks. It speaks beyond the academia. It teaches the soul that is unlearned- even the very soul that can never be affected by simple or rigid prose and poetry, just because of the incapacity to know or read. It arises to become man in exactitude and transacts with him daily. That is why I say, reformation comes from the heart and then proceeds thro' the mouth. Little will your pen do. Words spoken and actions wrought would move the world to endless catharsis. But very little will your ink do. And from this point again, I begin anew as a writer and a dramaturge, yet-within few or most of the times- I shall never forsake my classical past, for 'Art's sake', because if I do not allow it walk and talk but make him lie in crippled papers, it may cripple the limited observer. Let prose or poetry be not hopeless, for in him they have perfection and complete fruition.