A Critic of Thomas Pynchon
(And other steam of consciousness writers)
Trying to read this BBbbbllllizzard of words on the page
of this damned author who posed as sage
Who mystifies the simplest songs
and amorphousises way to long
for the rational mind to make a
connection with the gist
the pace the race
the common place.
The form so deformed as to be un analyzable
to be un surmisable
even for the daft.
The contrite are right
when they refuse to take a bite
in fright for to read such a Bliizardddddddd
of words on the page
does nothing but
put one
in a
daze.
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