Romancing the poet

Throwing back… but not too far (I don’t go back far enough!) 🙂

moonworld

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Romancing the poet

Where is the romance in a poet who does not feel?
Does he dream, perchance to sleep?
Or does he lay awake all through the night;
words tumbling
round and round,
perfectly structured,
immaculately positioned
ironic parameters,
or the like?

Words worthy of…
a rub… in his tub
Aye! There it is!

While I wait for a love letter from the heart
to ignite my passions,
All that arrives is a not-so-pleasurable ‘B’.

There’s a bee in his sonnet.
Bobbing… buzzing…
A sting in the immaculately coiffeured bee hive styling;
honeycombed ejaculate bursting forth
from his rod of ink;
leaving his mark like skunk stink –
scents to sense his ability for nonsensibility.

Starts from the heart then, starts from his art;
backtracks to the flat-packed shelter of his wit; so it seems.

Where is the romance in a poet who runs from his dreams?

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