No one reads my poetry blog.
And there's some decent shit
On there.
Epic fucking poems.
Cry your eyes out shit,
If you ask me.
I was going to change
The theme
Of my poetry blog.
I was going to change
My blog
Into a sports fan blog.
Amateur analysis.
Ardent bravado.
Loud-mouthed bluster.
But then I got a secret
Note,
In the guise of a comment,
Under one of my best
Poems.
Ever.
It was a request,
From the Soviet Union.
The U.S.S. fucking R.
The secret police.
The goddamn KGB.
Codes.
Messages.
Embedded in these lines.
Verses.
Stanzas.
Et cetera.
No problem.
I'll do it.
I don't owe this
Society
Nothing.
There are drunken parakeets
In Banja Luka
Tonight.
4 comments:
What's with all,
the,
goddamn,
commas?
This is driving me crazy!Just because it's poetry doesn't mean there aren't rules!!!
Poetry,
contrary to popular belief,
is,
not,
grammar,
anarchy.
It's anarchy
of
the
soul.
I don't believe in math.
I do!
Banja Luka, meaning Luka's Bath is a Serb Town fulla gangsters in the mountains of Bosnia on a whitewater river with natural hotspring-heated Turkish baths on the banks. Luka, the dusty plasterer from the old country lives in a downtown Vancouver rooming-house, and he doesn't much like showers, but he has a great thick handle-bar mustache that curls up at both ends like a pair of dark crescents, or smiling waxed commas.
Post a Comment