I once entered a poetry contest
And they scooped my year's wages
For publishing and distributing back to me (only)
The acme of my opus:
"Fallen Angel, I'll Pick You Up
And Lay You Down In The Arms Of Jesus,
But Not Before A Few Surreptitious Gropes".
Disappeared, as did I
In overproof treacle
Leaking non-stop on the pink backdrop.
I reviewed that stew, alternating
Plaudits and flagellation.
O the verses fell like rusted autos off a cliff
Landing in saltless seas, kerosene spreading
To silent O, penstreaks mixed and bobbing
In nutty blue histrionics.
Grand waters, multi-trillion-teared reproof,
Each droplet a waste of bitterness.
Now in blue ether, I
Plaster sour-breath adagios
On the opposite side of the sky
Where cruel critics convene
In halls of greased mirrors cracking up
With ironic emotion. My time card, late,
Is riddled with holes.
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