Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Poetry Is A French Science, Anyway

You all right there, Wordsworth?

I thought Wadsworth was the poet.

No clue. What’s up?

I have a poet’s heart.

You have a poet’s bank account.

They’re connected.

Yeah, sure. Please stop poeting. You’re complete shit, mate. Utter rubbish. Pack it in.

Why are you British?

All criticism should be delivered in a British accent. Makes it more painful.

You’re just jealous because you’re not a published poet.

Published?

I hit the publish button, yeah.

Nicely played. Please stop inflicting your poetry on people. Poeting at people when they’re not expecting it is the literary equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic. Knock it off, mopey.

What about haiku?

A: haiku is a subset of poetry, and therefore no; and B: you did haiku once and you’re even worse at it than however in hell you were mangling the language today.

Acrostic?

Acrostic about the Dead?

Sure.

No. You’re not running for seventh grade class treasurer.

Palindrome?

Too much work.

Palimpsest?

You’re not using that word right.

But you must admit that to a dyslexic, “palindrome” and “palimpsest” would be easily confused.

kuh-CHACK

shhhh-SHWOP

tumbletumbletumbletumble

“Vive la France! Cackle cackle knit knit!”

Did you just stick your head into a guillotine voluntarily and then your head rolled down the steps?

Yes.

Where it was picked up–

Madam LaFarge.

–by Madam LFarge? Wow.

That one was weird, yeah.

1 Comment

  1. I liked the poetry. That being said, I don’t follow any poetry blogs.

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