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How Floe Nice Tubby In The Throes

How... Floe N'ice Tubby In The Throes...
(breaking free of writer's block)

Asper this instance,
     when a dearth of ideas 
     like a charred bait oven
    finds me looking Bach
at drawing board and/or the clock
as if inspiration
     can be found teasing out
     whimsical child like spontaneity

     recalling hickory dickory dock
rather than exacerbate
     mental paralysis, akin
to an invisible vice grip,
     which tension eventually 
     far worse than bill
lee esse ness, which former 
     grips with irony my chin,

I try release sing restraint and chill,
ready to whip out power drill
not surprised finding sawdust,
viz of course after numbing skull
     sticking head in deep freeze
     or mounting temple
     on dry ice, without 
     receiving nary a cavil

lack of creative noggin fill
intense concentration
     invariably heats up "thinker"
     as if being scalded
     on a barbecue grill
(which fixed attention),
     never ever engenders
     positive flow of ideas,

     but absolutely ideal
     for reducing a mole hill
from a mountain
     nonetheless within ma mind,
     before long prolonged
     cessation to brain 
     storm induces ill
humor succumbing into

     torturous mental state
(fall of the cider 
     house rules usher),
     non poe whet
     tick dark age,
     whar ah felt jill
ted loom min hated
     with panic ready to kill...

mice elf (Stuart Little),
     cuz dem lil
cerebral cogs and wheels
     malfunction for more'n a mill
yen times prompting
     to scout graveyards
     for fresh corpse, and
     if results rendered nill

jet over to Doctor Frankenstein,
     even if aye gotta
     hightail to Trans sill
vein ya, unless....
     perhaps ye kind reader twill
donate yar viable gray matter tummy
     (right after ya die) denny ya will
almost be im mort till!

Copyright © matthew harris