Orange peels litter my desk,
sprinkling sparkling droplets of orange oil
over my unfinished love sonnet
A croissant is over there,
I just remembered.
It soaks my slam poem,
which I shall never perform,
with buttery heaviness
Jelly beans, blue, red, green, white,
to be found on the remote island of
my travel diary, as profuse with blank verse
as the ocean is profuse with fishes
A peanut-butter sandwich, open-faced,
refuses to unstick from the sestina
I have given up on finding proper words
for
I need to clean up my desk.
Your words are hurting my retina
'cus your rhymes stink like diarrhea
you're no rhyme Godzilla just a Gorilla
infected with poetic gonorrhea.
Your rhymes are thoughtless and without force
because of the very simple words you source
that make you sound like you are a horse
in a boat trying to flow without the oars.
You think you're a God and up there with Ali
and you might be at boxing but not poetry
I think you should go and climb back up the tree
and rejoin your own family of Chimpanzee.
So can you take your rotten disease
and move yourself away from me please
'cus you're infected and carrying fleas
and are a risk to me, the bees knees.
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