It never is good,
to feel like squashed tomatoes,
in a real ketchup.
The salads gone off,
with rabbits like an old friend,
eaten not beaten.
The weather is tame,
mild as a grizzly bear cub,
without it’s mother.
The telegraph pole died,
it stood so still like marble,
not saying a thing.
It’s original,
one of a kind like a ball,
that’s just kicked around.
Well the pen is dry,
and the well is dry as well,
and it felt like ‘ell.
Do not applaud this,
unless, like, me, you’re alone,
then scream it out loud.
Maybe I’ll hear you,
or maybe you will hear me,
unless we’re screaming.
I’m feeling asleep,
it is easy just like pie,
tasty when it’s hot.
Nonsense everywhere,
laiy it out like newspaper,
that’s just blown away.
Don’t try to catch it,
let it fly like so many,
unfinished poems
