You said you couldn’t cut the mustard
As if it pained you. Did you even know what that meant?
How about, close but no cigar?
Uriah Heep is rising writhing in the forest of my mind
Illiterate mind, ascrawl with shorthand.
Scratchings of a bird foot in the dust.
Maybe Jesus wrote in shorthand at the feet of the prostitute.
Kate swears I’m madonna, the etchings of my furious thoughts
Combining, proving such impossibilities as
Sugarcane, banana, mango and papaya.
Innoculate the exotic.
Immanentize the eschaton.
Ignore the erudite.
Inter the erotic.
Ineffable Elysium.
Isolde the Extraterrestrial.
(Poor Tristan.)
A fig for your thoughts. Ahh put a cork in it. Baby’s sleeping.
Posted by S. E. Pohlig 
