Poems, half-written,
or too smitten
with gaudy love
themes - I shove
them in a pile
on the desk while
I pull a fresh
page to thresh
anew with inkèd
thoughts, so linkèd
to sharp images:
like cabbages…
but no - not
quite - what rot.
Let's begin again -
with a fresher pen -
and simply state
that what I ate
does not relate
to the former prate
whatsoever.
I have never
writ a single
solemn jingle
pertaining to
the honeydew
or any other melon,
as might a common felon.
I may jot serious -
albeit curious -
odes to the tomato
or nobler potato,
but there I draw
the line. Such raw
emotions I am unable
to find in vegètable
or fruit-related verse.
(Perhaps it is a curse.)
I owe no merit
to the carrot,
nor has the peach
informed my speech.
My mind is no harb-
or to the rhubarb.
But, I must say,
if you ask me today,
nothing is truly more ang-
elic than the orange.
I'll take that rhyme
with whiskey and lime.
And possibly I'll
write another pile,
with food for poetic
thought - so pathetic,
but at the very least
(or maybe that's the yeast
speaking), it's not about
love, heartache, or gout.
Does anyone write
gout poetry? I might
take a stab
at it… or scab
poems - any fans?
Ah, but perchance
I've had too much
to drink, as such.
So let's end it here,
the poem on bier;
with no more to say,
I'm wasting away -
a severe lack of piet-
y in my diet.
Now, let us kneel,
and pray I can peel
myself away from
this lousy crumb-
y awful sin
of a poem. -Fin.-

TMK 8aug2007