Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Bathroom Monologue: That It Do

pages grow yellow
paint flecking on wood
quills scrape along paper
random visuals
frantic touches,
so fake they bleed
every sentence fragment so full
of itself and nothing else
doesn't have to rhyme
doesn't need rhythm
occasional odors
soundless music
sensory imagery
pomp and thunder fills a void
a void that calls itself the Universe
things said better
more clearly
more concisely
more correctly
in prose
this is why
I hate poetry

1 comment:

  1. Very good, for bad poetry. I like it. And you make a valid point. :D


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