Hello Poetry Trainers.
First, some most excellent news... I finished the first draft of my second novel. Sure feels good. And it doesn't totally suck! Sure, it needs some love, but for the most part, I'm just glad I've got a full draft to work with. I think the real magic is in the editing...
So, tonight, in celebration, I wrote an original poem. This is about as hot off the press as they get.
It doesn't even have a title yet.
The dramaturge sits in his oafish chair
beard in breath
wrangling his metaphors
he wants demonstration not simple words
the bee bigger than life
just because you say a red bird
doesn't mean it can't speak
The puppeteer, too, wants a larger role
and the woman behind the bar
the audience in a slow suicide
wanders home past the
the bearded critic
and goes to bed
dreaming of the speed of light
And speaking of dreaming... I should get to bed myself.