I once fashioned coy bromides for poetry dot com
And they published them pronto in anthologies
By the truckload, sandwiching me between the dudes
Hardy and Hopkins whose poems lacked resonance
Next to my gripping emotiwanks, though radiant
By fortuitous propinquity to my verbal suns.
The selection of Hardy, especially, puzzled me.
Filibustering filler. Not all can compete with
“Sighs of tender angels nestling Jesus’ thighs” and
“Sweet breath of God’s grace in faith of beauty” and so on.
That guy was always grousing about nature and such.
Faithless manifestos. I had to buy back my poems
But now I’ll live as long as God’s correctional centre
In the sky, lucky readers from Auckland to Oxford
Murmuring the lines to “Sheep Blanket Bingo” and
“I Licked The Psychiatric Nurse’s Uvula
In The Vacant Laundry Room”. My reputation
Teflon, my pipeline to heaven busy, my leer lidless.
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