Confessions of a Lazy Poet ( part 3)

 
Only today it struck
(u-friggin-reeker)
poetry – the big P
can be an excuse for anything I want.
 
Assignment late for college
sorry, it was the poetry
Christmas shopping not started
it was the poetry
that unfortunate late night incident in the parking lot
Sorry, officer I was just grappling
with this couplet alliteration,
I was writing poetry you see.
 
All through my weekly meditation class
I was pursued by verse
half finished stanzas
galloping manically round my brain
frenzied mustangs of rhyme and not rhyme
I could not focus
on the center of my own forehead
it may as well have been on Mars.
 
And recently it feels
like something paranormal
has slipped me a mind warp cocktail
of pure poetry
100 percent proof
so I'm now sucking my own brain out
with a very thin straw and no-one even asked me
if I was over 18.
 
Maybe while I was sleeping
a tiny space craft landed ever so softly
on my forehead
and a miniature army
of little green aliens
decamped into both my ears
although now
no visible signs of this invasion by stealth remain.
I checked very carefully in the mirror
even had the courage to go with
that scary magnifying side.
 
But I'm caught by the thought
they may still be there
inside my skull.
Gulliverians
working away as I write
and biding their time until one day
they rest total control
to rush out screaming: 
Death by a thousand edits
surrender to our words or die!
 
Maybe they're writing this now
maybe it's happening to poets like me
all over the world.
I'm concerned
do our governments know
what's really happening after bedtime.
 
So from this day on
(how many are there left)
when I sit down to write
perhaps I should ask myself:
Hello, is there anybody in there?
just to be
on the safe side.
 
 
 
 
Don't forget it–write it down