Lyric a la Mode
I am a true contemporary
who knows how to acceptably
write a poem. First with a tangible
aroma of burnt toast, I will run on
my imaginary couplets like a stroke
victim of the modern prejudices.
(Strophe’s choice is put aside, and
Iamb not going to count my feet.)
Once cute, most common figures of speech have
worn out their fashion like poorly matched metaphors.
(Do not rhyme, remember, do not rhyme,
as you wax nostalgic for some childhood time… damn!)
Pent up pentameter oozes with therapeutic
confessionals that spring or dance or likewise
incongruently twist uncomfortably on the page,
while conjuring an image both shamefully personal
and embarrassingly boring from a tourist’s slide show
or the shoebox full of faded, classic Polaroids.
Sardonically satiristic, I’ll reach-around to reference
an obscurely erudite portrait of some saint, like
Christina The Astonishing’s flight into the rafters
of the church to avoid the stink of her own kind.
And at the end of a turbulent typhoon of irregular lines
washing deeply into the recesses of nowhere in particular,
I will, after too long a time, finally and hopefully declare:
une mule morte sur les clefs du piano.
Self satisfied, I’ll end my rant -- non sequitur but unchallenged…
or would you prefer a tantalizing inquiry of you, Dear Reader?
Copyright © James Ph. Kotsybar | Year Posted 2011
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