Sparkatale

 I’m writing sentences

and cutting them

OFF

 

because that’s “poetry.”

 

Abusing my right

to freedom of verse,

I leave a

trail

of stunted sentences,

scattered dots,

and moments of life

falling

down

the page

 

I’m using ethereal vocabulary

(well, I just did

at least)

 

Because

I’m trying to mask

my clumsy mouth.

Diction creates

Conviction,

even if

I don’t actually care

 

I’m going to allude to

—fire of my loins—

Lolita

 

And claim the best words

as my own.

Let the random quote

squeeze

between my unmatched ideas

and cast a flame

in your ears.

 

You’re going to gaze over,

listen to, and overanalyze

my words

 

because ‘tis “poetry”

 

Adoring eyes shall

smother love

all over my work,

my coordinated mess of

syllables,

Do you enjoy

finding reason

in my bloated babbling?

 

You’re never going to realize

that there is no answer to life,

or trains, or love,

or physics.

All humans can do is die.

But instead of falling gracefully,

we choose to flounder

and muse

 

With “lovely” poetry.

 

So, distinguished poets,

Masters of deception,

Prose-haters,

teach me your ways,

and I’ll pretend to

comprehend

 

because I abhor poetry.