Bad Poetry

Bad Poetry

After foreplay made of doggerel
Rhymes of death
There was a progression to free verse
And for two whole lines
Probably stolen, unawares
From someone else
The poet reached the empyrean
Domain of mediocrity
Before nodding off into a bowl of blancmange
And suffocating

I’m eating the blancmange.
One must grasp what one can
From a troubled world.

Published by

Allegra

Born 1958. Not dead yet.

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