I want to love poetry. I want to love myself.
But Ben Fama’s Fantasy makes both very difficult. It’s a funny little collection of works that intend to poke at the millennial and contemporary artsy urban individual’s mindset, particularly that of the fashionable queer. But is it really that? Yes, but also a window into Fama’s mind, offering an eye rolling opportunity for lovers and haters of poetry and millennials to come together and gnash their teeth against subway walls. The work is maddening for all the right and wrong ways.
From musing about how bad a Rodarte sample sale was (Ugh.) to fondling oneself to an iPhone photo that looks like an American Apparel ad (U G H.), there is a wealth of modern annoyances run amok in his work. It got so bad during my reading that I started to take pictures of the moments and instances in Fantasy that made me want to kill poetry or myself. The work became less about the words or execution and more about twee name dropping and ironic reflections on hyper-contemporary activities that immediately die a crass death as they are inelegant subjects to write.
(I defy you to attempt to make the act of going on Facebook seem romantic, beautiful, or in any way eloquent. Perhaps The Social Network did that but Ben Fama has not done that.)
Find a selection of moments in the book that will make you giggle or cry featuring a few annotations. Read at your own risk.
And that literally is the entire poem.
This one might be the worst. It’s just so obnoxious.
Word soup of the bicoastal and befuddled.
That is an entire poem. Metaphorically gag me with a metaphorical spoon.