The idea it only matters if there’s a dramatic sense of
innuendo where the words gel together is crazy; we’ll
be inundated with pithy one-liners of amazing vintage
because no-one nowadays thinks like that, or so they
insist, while vicariously pre-empting shifts of onus
Creativity really isn’t always originality they’ll bleat, its
the effects of blandness being obviously sidelined off
a boring tendency to agree with the status quo so far
off-track it’s in another paddock & playing cricket with
a tennis racquet, or something equally blasé
For heavens sake we’re discussing poetry in a sense
meant to generate synergy not antipathy - and yet an
element of its past-tense rants from a postern we left
ajar - & that is where the cookies crumble far from an
equitably intrinsic, vaingloriously luscious ending; & -
That is me posturing with phraseology you’ll become
a slave to. Pardon we they’ll say, you a slaver? Golly,
the joke’s lost in the way we’re rolling defenceless on
a patio of your word’s fey humility; & so what if we’ve
all heard it before - c’mon, let’s all hear it again!
© 1 January 2016, I. D. Carswell
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