Monday, August 3, 2015

Some Didactic Verse on Writing Poetry When No One Cares and There's Never Time to Contemplate Anyway

This is no place to meditate --
An empty classroom on my break.
Hall-echoed voices are my fate --
I need a languid, lapping lake.

What thoughts are these? Are these the best
That thunder round and round my crest?
A dropping mental metronome
Because I have no place to roam?

I have no pleasure or delight,
And no one cares about my plight --
They fear what poets can incite,
So insight is kept in the night.

I fucking lost all of my words --
I'm left with nothing but brown birds.
I did not even want that rhyme -
Perhaps it's "curd" some other time.

These stupid, stupid, stupid words
That people want as bad as turds
Or as a bowl of month-warm curds
Should fly away like lice-plucked birds.

I told you curds would find a place
Here in this verse, poem's disgrace.

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