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?