I can’t read flarf as new.
I can’t read flarf as anything to capitalize.
I can’t read flarf manifestos. I’ve read more flarf manifestos than I should have.
I love the creation story of flarf, similarly conceived by at least one high school literary magazine staff I know of. I impatiently await the death of flarf.
I love some flarf poems (I laugh in my love, I lose myself in laughter, wonder why flarf poets don’t become flarf stand-up comics, wonder why anyone would want to be identified as flarf anything, but then that’s the flarf of it).
I hate some flarf poems, process worn thin on poem's chest like a worn plastic convention badge.
I rue the distraction. I love the distractions, dialogues, diatribes. I hate the Sisyphysean debates.
I resent the short-sightedness, the claims of originality for 50 year old cut-up techniques.
I love the brashness.
I hate the exclusiveness: we did this first and foremost.
I love the inclusiveness: anyone can do this. Even the aforementioned high school literary magazine staff. Even my eight year old cat.
I love the movement even if it doesn’t ultimately move.
I’ll love what it meant even when I no longer read what it means.