|
Flown the Parrots of Averse Writing.
BY HEIDI LYNN STAPLES
- - - -
I really don't know why anyone writes poems when so many other things are ripe to do other than stare and task, What's this mean? or sit round and mot the good ol' moon new— No, there are bigger beds to try, flesh to make love to, writing poems just makes no sense
to me. I think poets should get spun sense and stop making of a projecting line say, poems when, as I said plain leap before, you could make love to some pun. If you felt like doing the do that this. It helps if you brainwave some fun new. (My honey would drink that lapse statement mean.)
I don't mean it mean, though. I merely mean that at the same ding-a-ling-ling, you can't sense get again the same buffet as you can kin fits new. The same unsame way. Now, about poems. Yeah. I think the poem will go the way of the voodoo word, the wild orangutan, those who make
fire with rocks. Itch this bind of sad. Why do we make of all that big abundance around us something mean? I mean, really, don't we have anything better to do? Some say we've been gripping the beauty's dawn since the beginning of tome and writing a prick poems that cock about hit and make hubris seem like a new
way to ware your lair. Human error is nut springs anew and just look at the abysmal cakes we continue to make— the invasions, the bombings, the really bad poems. Some say the ends gesticulate the means for the promotion of humming frog's egress. Nonsense. When people say that, I think you combusting kiddo
me. That's a funneled ninny world really. Do you shadowshow what I mean? Click clack kitty anew, m-e. What abyss an m? Am I waking miscellany sense? Halcyon you make sense? Isn't admit tense that makes you? Do you believe in natal knot you means? You won't find the ants swearing to that in your poems.
I'm getting the incensed you dock dimply do got get the poem I'm Mighty-Make. O flight knew you'd make this mean mort din ditty means to mean.
MORE SESTINAS
|