Crapping Out A Masterpiece Poem by David Welch

Crapping Out A Masterpiece

It's funny to look at creatives,
painters, writers, musicians and such,
look back across their bodies of work,
and laugh at how much of it is luck,
that things they put their whole soul into
now languish deep in obscurity,
while works they did for cash rise above,
the reasons a compete mystery.

For example, Anthony Burgess,
the writer of Clockwork Orange fame,
wrote the book in three weeks for money,
from a half-baked impulse in his brain,
only to see the story snowball,
becoming, by far, his best known work,
even became a famous movie,
the success of it made his brain hurt
to the point he denounced his own book
as he went through the balance of years,
but try to recall his other books
and you will find no memory appears.
Though the man didn't embrace the work,
the impact of the tale did not cease,
and I think that it is safe to say
poor Burgess crapped out a masterpiece.

You have seen it plenty in music,
like the overperforming B-side,
KISS was known for their raucous rocking,
that is how they're practically defined,
and yet their greatest commercial hit
was a sappy love ballad called Beth,
a B-side to more pulse-pounding fare,
yet somehow outperforming the rest.
How many songs came about like this?
It's so many it's now a cliché,
and all that was well before Youtube,
now it seems like every other day
some amateur you've never heard of,
who past efforts just seemed cringeworthy,
just got ten million hits overnight
because they crapped out a masterpiece.

Max Brand writing all of his westerns,
a genre that he helped to define,
thought they were junk, his poems were art,
yet just the westerns have survived time.
The people who made the first Matrix
Have done nothing that impressive since,
to the point that it's become quite clear
they don't know what made the first a win.
No matter what the medium is,
it seems not to matter in the least,
set people free and somehow some will
happen to crap out a masterpiece.

Now some may think this trend depressing,
there's this idea our creators' minds
understand things on some deep level
when they happen to craft the sublime.
But I, as one more wayward writer,
find the crapped-masterpiece comforting,
since years of work have taught me one truth:
No one knows where folks take a-liking.
I have crafted meaningful pieces
that employ every skill in the art,
just to see them completely ignored,
barely read, much less taken to heart.
And I have dashed off silly sonnets
that I thought up sitting on the can,
only to see the views pouring in…
it's a thing no writer understands.
But on the flip side, we come to see
that the chance always remains out there,
all we have to do is keep writing,
and not give in to our own despair.
If we cannot know what makes things great,
if it's a whim of the universe,
then eventually something we write
will, by chance, become immortal words.
They'll ‘read it deep, ' or see ‘the subtext, '
academics will drape it in praise;
Why it's genius? The hell if I know,
but it's fun when people call you great!
A work that will stand the test of time…
Self-created unbeknownst to me,
sooner or later something sounds smart,
and I'll have crapped out a masterpiece.

…Jus let me know when it happens, okay? It takes time to rent a tux.

Saturday, May 11, 2024
Topic(s) of this poem: how i feel,music,satire,smart,truth,writing,art,rhyme
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