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Obligatory Poem About Writing Poetry


The space between fingers and brain
becomes a wormhole and
-- a la Heisenberg --
conducts currents of
unreasonable unpredictability
malleable droplets
of rose petal death
shooting stars – one by one – with cap gun dreams
smothered by honeydew heartache
and rent, limb from languorous limb
or mortgaged to some masochistic muse

Did you imagine, in your garret-cloistered wondering
that your quill, its china ink dripping onto vellum
could one day resound through generations of artistic pretension
and come to rest at the foot of posterity’s regal cenotaph?

Was that all that fed you, clothed you,
kept you from that clamouring wolf
of responsibility?

Were you, sonnet-struck, unable to fathom
why nobody understood, when every word
fell, unaltered, from your heart?



Blend me, bend me, just don’t hurt me
Po’et’ree, please don’t desert me
I am humble at your feet
Naked to your ponderous beat
Blistered by your furious heat
Scoured by blinding sands

A meter maid is not afraid of
What you people call rhyme
It’s something that has been around
For ever such a long time
Though piracy and other free verse
Whores may seek to break her
She’ll never fold but ever hold her
Ground though death may take her
Make her an
poesy her


rhymes with portal, seems to fit
if it don’t then bugger it
throw convention out the door
we don’t need it anymore
grammar ain't quite workin' now
(she’s done retired, the lazy cow)

avast, ave
the rondelet

Not sword, but pen
So most sagacious men have said
Not sword, but pen
The time for words may come again
But all wise men are long years dead
Now pixel pops are gods instead
To sword, not pen

Where’s that wormhole when you need it?

The race


s p a c e

  And underdressed

Naked to that bloody beat
What a treat

A poem? For me?

No really, you shouldn’t have.

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