"Their souls entwined," the poem read,
and to the azure skies they sped.
A poem's no good unless it's spent
on passion, pain and lovers rent
from others' arms before its time,
all penned in verse, both free and rhyme.
I don't remember poems like this
in English class, all filled with bliss.
Our poems were writ on roads and mice
all forked and timorous (and filled with lice).
These sexy poems are more my ken
all wet and slippery, skin to skin.
Where brown is never brown, but bouillion
and blue is nothing if not cerulean.
And life is heightened by degree.
All senses more... sensitivity?
So you touch me and I'll touch you,
And 'ere you know it we're all through.
And smoking cigarettes and spent.
If only poems could pay the rent.
~ Elodie Pritchartt
Saw your tweet had to read the poem - which is very good indeed. Clearly the readers missed the ironic intent of rhyming, and might have been confused by the elliptical references to the academic poetic corpus. For a very first poem it's a revelation, I worked very hard at my poetry for years (won some prizes, Allen Ginsburg squeezed my bum, etc.) and then outs pops this gem that reads (even if it wasn't) as effortless. Goodness!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Kevin! I remember you reaadingn us some of your poems. Have a wonderful holiday and stay safe and well.
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