Kenzo Kon Dedao-Duozhu
Filed under: Authors
Kenzo Kon Dedaò-Duozhu thinks that this poem should be read under adult artist supervision, and having learnt from apology tours, is the first to say sorry if any of this comes across anywhere offensive to anyone.
Enter flarf, the experimental poetry movement that's even bagged an annual showing at Manhattan's Bowery Poetry Club. It'll be nice to watch flarf-in-action in a rock garden. A Chinese man in Turfan is thinking aloud, eyes squinting, Gucci sunnies. There's a Mani-Mystic Flarfist in the family room, sort of like Smurfette before she turned platinum, watching the silent films of William Desmond Taylor.
"Can Flarf Ever Be Taken Seriously?" Poets & Writers asked in its July/August 2009 issue.
Kenzo Kon Dedaò-Duozhu is thrilled that this poem has been placed in the Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest, one more classroom exercise for his creative writing students, to ask questions about aesthetics and censorship and blazing trails and wave-catching and authenticity and satire and good ol' fun, and what's okay to say and not to say. And what artistic freedom means. And Paul Kindsedt's Complete Guide To Making and Selling Artisan Cheeses. And how seriously the world seems to take itself nowadays, even as we start taking seriously the none-too-serious. The entries in Wergle Flomp will one day make for a solid anthology, now that the Whitney has given its solid nod and yes, yes, yes, yes, yes the way Julia Kristeva is pure panache, literature's very own Chanel.
Charmed by numerology and No. 5 too, Kenzo Kon Dedaò-Duozhu likes the calories in roasted almonds and is trying to drink water instead of diet soda nowadays. He wishes he had visited Seattle when he was in America though, just to taste Fran's chocolates.
Kenzo Kon Dedaò-Duozhu is a silicon polymer.
He is also known by his noms de plume "ars gratia artis" and "l'art pour l’art", depending on whether he's into dactylic hexameters or French pleats. He presently fears for his life, and has gone into hiding in Monet's The Cliff at Étretat after the Storm, its freshwater zen helping to contain his chichi, decenter its chinking sounds, and redirect his sparkling qi. Like a bit of bling, bling over a resonant nightlight, beside a stringing machine.
Winning Entry: In Bed With St. Ignatius These Late Antiquity Nights: A Manifesto on Aspiration
Contest Won: Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest 2009, Finalist
