Saturday, 4 August 2012

There’s always the hot poop

This is what happens...

One of my
oft repeated mistakes
is getting suggestions
from off of my mates
for poems to write
when, just out of sight,
my muse has fucked off
and the blank page waits…

They write crap
on my Facebook wall
that makes little
or no sense at all –
ideas that are wacky,
or just downright tacky,
or so sick and twisted
they frankly appal.

“Imagine you wished
you were wearing no pants,
or the sun’s a tomato
that’s living in France!”
One guy on Twitter
wants an ode “up the shitter”,
which is far from Wordsworth’s
idea of romance.

“Oh, write about poetry,
that would be ‘meta’”
“No, something on fruit
would be lyrically better”
“Be a good son –
write a song for your mum,
or copy that Auden –
send Byron a letter!”

You would think
I’d get more sense from poets,
but they’re just as barking
and boy, do they know it:
“Blank verse on halloumi,
or something pantoum-y!
You could go villanelle,
or even rondeau it!”

These are just
a tungsten example
of some of their input –
I could give you ample.
So I sit in the sun
while Olympians run:
the page is still blank
and I’m hardly that thankful.

Though I love
them with all of my heart,
my friends are all clueless
when it comes to art.
So, thanks for your counsel –
your wisdom is doubtful –
and as for this poem,
I still
don’t know
where to...

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