Mr. Karfield is a poet from another dimension, where sex, drugs & rock ‘n’ roll are the offspring of poetry. Where no man cool enough to skip school once in a while goes without a daily dose of literary mumble jumble. The cigarette come later. Where poetry is so damn sexy, it makes you dizzier than the toxics you took do – and the soundwaves you rode. Where poetry is zeus and hades.
To share in this romantic fairy tale where all things forbidden are poetry; where poetry “is sexxy, druggy, rocky ‘n’ rolly”* – Mr. Karfield has reached us, and “homing pigeoned” us some of his works to “stamp on a blog.”
In the name of Mr. Karfield, hence, we’d like to take the opportunity to make our world understand the sexy, druggy, and rock ‘n’ rolly nature of poetry. But not at all with such pretense as the previous sentence pretends. Just.
Mr. Karfield asked us to run wild with it, and so we did – that is, in the layout. This is not for kids. Or grandmas – well, some. Or for work. After all, it’s about the greatest vices in the history of mankind: Spitting words, and saying them like you mean it. A great example are the Siri sessions that will be posted along here.
These are poems from the dear Mr. Karfield.
*Citations originate from accompanying letter added to the bundle of writings we received from Mr. Karfield in 2012.