cubistpoet

I Will Learn to Love the Smell of Communion Wafers in the Morning

A swirling tricklish whisper drip-drops into my aural lobes,
"Rant, ramble, and ridicule. Never let slip the three R's of slam."

I soaked the suggestion for a second and spewed a smarmy spit-take back,
"Dear Disembodied Voice, didn't you forget Repetition and Redundancy?
And naturally the expert-only Flying V of VOOOOOLLLLLLUUUUMMMMMEEE!!"
eyes popping wide mid polymorphously sibilant sentence from the sting
of obeying the shadowy guru I sought to be mocking and betraying.

With superhero whirlwind legs I streaked to the closet,
shoulder-tossing midget garden-gnomes, grass-stained wind tunnels,
Captain Hook action figure accessories,
and tropical storms of yellow cracked eggnog recipes
in a thermometer bursting fever of amateur spelunking
an axe-picking adventure after the one crossless potential savior from poetic hypocrisy:
an ironic barometer!

It must be here somewhere!

My quest made vain, I waterspouted a quantum chain of other-other-other pants excuses
to tarp and cover the remains of another blubbering blunder of explanation,
a performative dead air where a self-made meteorology of mirth should be forecasting
sunny and slyly smiling decadent days with a 0% chance of the precipitation of problems.

But since I've been self-apprehended, tongue still red, in citizen's poetic arrest
I'll make a shrift of this stage and saints of all the sinners:

"Bless me fellow travelers, for I hath sinned.
This will be my first confession.
I have committed the sin of not practicing the clichless poetics that I preach.
What penance shall I pay, my brethren?"