A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Anyone For Cognac ?
I labour long and hard
to produce a few drops of
nectar from this crumbling,
ancient distillery which some
people refer to as my talent.
Every night during the past
week, I have sat under a
desklamp, pencil and paper
on my lap, wracking my brains,
cursing and scribbling and
making heavy work of what
just a few short years ago
came as easily to me as a
bowel movement.
When it was done I showed
my poem to someone whose
opinions of my work I always
proudly quote. Continuing
the drinks analogy, I asked if
my latest opus tasted to him
like cognac or a nice burgundy
or perhaps something sweet
but non-alcoholic.
He let my words pass slowly
over the tastebuds of his brain,
playing with each syllable with
a juggler's precision.
"Ah, yes" he said finally, "It has
the flavour and texture of
week-old pee, with a hint of
epsom salts. I detect also
the aroma of dead skin and
swamp water. Where would
you hope to see it,
in The Peristaltic Weekly ?"
