[This business of poetry writing: It really begins to disgust me, Lord Byron]
Classical poetry (which this isn't, quite), allows the poet to address another, deceased poet in his work
Invocation of the muse by the poet, as required by classical tradition:
Yo, Muse!
Pull up a stool
as I whine and complain
'bout the life of a poet,
what it's done to my brain!
Tradition having been satisfied, the reader is presented with the plague-ridden body of the poem which has the poet lamenting his sorry state, self inflicted, most likely. (Readers, be forwarned that lamenting is poet-speak for some really sickening whining and complaining)
I've begun to abhor
writing poems about love
rolling oceans and war
and I write of drunk poets
who crawl home into bed
and those other muse droppings
that will litter my head!
My poetical symbols
are beginning to stink
that's because I've been using
all the same ones I think:
my metaphores threadbare
similes rotten within
my thinking's got thicker
my writing's gone thin!
I have used and reused them
oh so countless a time
that my picture will grace
Greenpeace magazine's cover
as recycling's best ever poster child!
I've discovered
(quite sober at that)
this detesting contempt
for my feet and my meters
that I cram down the throats
of my innocent readers
my dactilyc dimeter
would bore toddlers stuffed
and iambic pentameter
I've used way too much
But by any name-calling
meters be as they may,
they are all evil timebombs
ticking 'round in my brain!
Now I'm really tired
but I'll whine about writing
of my ardent desires 
for so ravishly biting
ladies' delicate chins
and their warm slender necks
and their long tapered fingers
I most graciously peck
They should wave me goodbye
'cause I'll write of new trash:
Grecian urns and sage turtles
worked for Keats and for Nash!
His monologue finished, the poet gets on his little tricycle and dramatically pedals off in the general direction of the sunset he is sure should be somewhere behind the slate-gray skies that now gently sprinkle their watery contents over all they see.
Jon Bohrn (1997)


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