Wednesday, 3 December 2014


This poem is not dramatic
It draws no ooohs or aaahs
It won’t make your heart tick
It won’t drag on for hours
It won’t leave you on the stars
or on barren shores teary eyed

I will need a dark room
and a minimum watts onion bulb
a creaky lab stool
and speakers called HORNS
I will need an auditorium
open the doors when I’m through

This poem won’t be heard
It wasn’t even written
this poem won’t be read
I mean, who are you kidding.
You will not believe this poem
You won’t know what happened

I will sit on the creaky stool
The empty space will fill me with dread
I will clear my throat to keep cool
I will resolve to perform like a droid
 Then I will see your haughty face
you will multiply and fill every seat
 I will shrink into a grain
and you will laugh like I have goofed
and call me a scatter-brain
silence is golden, my words testify I’m a fool
 I will scurry back into oblivion
and leave this poem for HORNS and creaky stool