deepundergroundpoetry.com
Blind Date with a Poem
The bitch on the tip of my tongue
came out all wrong
She wasn't sexy at all
even when I dressed up her words
with a flashy new font
stripped them to the bone
and edited their ass off
still she sat
poetic legs firmly crossed
frowning on the page
duller than a blind date nightmare
with the Vogons
She seemed as frumpy
as old Granny Gluebones
in a brown tweed suit
peering through horn-rimmed glasses
the ingredients of her poetic juice
all dried up and confined to dust
under rusty whalebone corsets
a surefire recipe for writer's block
So I tried my best
to tickle her verbs
I sprinkled her adjectives with spice
jiggled her stanzas
and teased her internals with rhyme
but she never even winked
Her verses were playing hard to get
I would need more than a literary dildo--
even Shakespeare might struggle
to find a finger of inspiration here
but my poet's pride demanded a result
after all
I was paying for her lines
with my time
Then at last
on the cab ride home
the miracle happened
We were thrown together
by a bump in the road
and suddenly
gracing the city lights
her scent seemed headier
than a classic rose
In the twitch of a heartbeat
she'd let her hair down
taken off her glasses
and unbuttoned the top of her blouse
Her legs were no longer crossed
Oh, she said:
Is this what you want?
Now, am I your kind of poem?
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