Oh, tell us!
Won’t you tell us?
The master-poet smiled.
The smile meant no.
He adjourned to the coast to die.
From a clifftop verandah he peered down
At the swash, hoping for a glimpse of Venus,
Birthing on the waves.
He didn’t see her,
And so he lay down to die.
Crowds bubbled to hear The Simile:
Students, professors, aficionados,
Past lovers, fellow poets,
Those who knew the master-poet
As a sardonic cad.
I’m like the tooth fairy,
In that I’m secretly your Dad.
Well-rounded as a flat-earther,
Or washed up like a fat surfer,
From your first word
‘Til your last gurgle
You’ve gotta cat-burgle:
Get to the top of the story,
Don’t grind just to stay on the ground,
Stuck in the mud,
Waiting on fate or St. Caj
To come free you:
Hope’s an imperfect shelter,
So find your own suit
Be content on your lonesome;
Got ideas? Float ’em,
And broker inner tokens
In return for a totem.
I know the universe works mentally…
I know everything.
He came upon a revelation.
We all see it differently.
A summer’s breeze
Is nothing is
One soprano in an Aeolian choir is
God’s breath is
A brotherly flux in air pressure is
Feeling balmy on the skin after
All day sending emails.
The mind is as malleable as code:
You can edit, you can edit, you can edit.
He realised later that God was not one
And if not He, then who?
Misery clinched the crannies,
Constant as thought.
He was a wind-up lantern in semi-solid fog;
He scarcely saw his hands as they worried the crank.
The sun did not rise today-
He pounced unannounced,
Shouldering his jealousy
Into the unguarded Earth.
He’d seen, you see,
How she seldom shied
From the lips of the breeze;
He’d noted too
The chiselled moon,
And how he’d come early,
Adorning the blue.
So as long as he might,
He kept his lover in sight,
Stifling her surface
With a cloying love bright.
Her grass he yellowed,
And my skin pinks,
Blushing until, reluctant,
She wanted so bad to be edgy,
To square her rounded mould:
“Adidas for Joules, vaping for baking,”
Was a mantra she to herself told.
Each day in her cap a new feather
(She donned a fresh peak from Ellesse):
MD, EDM, and avid Corbynism
Were the limes from which she squeezed zest.
But one balmy afternoon whilst reading–
That Postmodern bulwark, Infinite Jest–
Her eyelids drooped, her head soon followed,
Until her chin found respite on her breast.
She awoke– oh horror!– to a shapely
Metamorphosis, a most peculiar bodily lesion!
Where once limbs and curves, now
Twelve vertices: enough for a dodecahedron.
A spirited woman, in Leicester Sq. McDonald’s:
If the cold’s twofold
Send it back
And they’ll reissue it.