There are scores
Of normal
Activities you could have
Been gifted to do
In this life apart
From the peculiar
One of writing poetry—
Being transfixed at the sight
Of fluff accumulating
Between the folds
Of an otiose navel
Will never count
As one of them.
The next time
You sit
Down to write
Whatever comes up, think
Of what Mary Shelley created*
In just one night,
And make sure
Your head is
Firmly in place,
All bolts fitted
Tight and no
More stripped
Threads or loose
Stitches; then and only then
Can you say all aboard
the mystery
Train, so step lightly all
My grotesque friends!
*Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
Let it henceforth be known,
Poems shall no longer be
Pure as the driven snow.
It’s hard
Enough as it is, being
Rundown vehicles stuck
In raging blizzards
Of unspeakable
Clarity.
Being
Extra-ordinary,
Too much
In love
With your
Self means
There’s no room
For others
At your very own,
Very in inn—
Time to pack it in?
The thought
Of it was there, seemingly
Unmoving so long as you were
Captivated by it,
But even then
It wasn’t
With you all
The while, when
It would sidle
Between the folds
Of your mind, waiting
For the next inkling
Of wind to go
Rustling off again.
