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.