Failing Poet

18 Jun

Globular blobs of tacky black ink stink up the pure page with words that inflect their infection of diction so it loses the perfection of simple silence as the implement of creation gives physicality to the notions that float in fiction amid the synaptic snaps of the thoughts of the author whose hands twitchy motions scratch scars of excretion on the paper nappy that catches the crap with the hope of extraction of some golden nugget of enlightened quotation, caesuras don’t feature as she waffles in metre and trips where her tongue would be eloquent teacher to her scribbling fingers that smear and distort every effort to reason with clunky retorts that fall short of Wordsworth’s lonely walk and Owen’s heart wrenching trench report. Her timing, her rhyming, there’s no use denying she’d be gifted at miming rather than trying to articulate and shape the shadowy crates that infiltrate her slowly numbing cranium to fumble over jumbled mumbles of clumsy catastrophic couplets that cut off her flow like a wine bottle’s cork but here’s a thought, that if she drank a dram the barrier would collapse perhaps that is the gap between the scraps of fragmented yaps coming out of her trap to cement her sketchy schemes together but whether this could ever be, it remains for me and you to see.

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2 Responses to “Failing Poet”

  1. julienmatei June 18, 2013 at 7:54 am #

    Love this…

    • francesclarke07 June 18, 2013 at 8:25 am #

      Thank you!

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