Look what this poem is doing to me.
It's an act of possession, attrition;
it's war without peace, and yet I can't cease
from this ruddy reaction, a sort of
attraction; a kind of compulsion; this
pugnacious poem is so revolting
me. Yet I desire to be so leashed.
Look what this poem is doing to me.
One hand at my throat, and pushed up this close
it's lusty, musky, and temptingly male.
But when push came to shove, it said, 'Turn out
your pockets, pompous poet, of lazy
rhetorical devices, give me tales
or fine phrases to daze and amaze me.'
So I tried.
But the poem looked askance at my crazy
collection: at Tam's funny flat hat, and
Ozzy's lorn legs. And the twenty brown bees
couriered poste-haste from Persephone?
They fared no better. I rooted around,
and brought from a sack, seven apple pips.
'Just look at these,' I said, sure to impress.
'They'll get stuck in my teeth!' it sniffed, then
bloody hells bells, the bastard poem bit me.
'Poem, oh poem, please don't reject me
really, I promise to be good as a
good poet should, and not to annoy you.
I love to tease but I love even more,
poem, to please, don't you see? Say you do.'
The poem sighed.
'If you promise to be good, as a
good poet should and not to annoy me
then I shall demur.' And the poem looked quite
coy and we sat there, poet, poem, swinging
our several feet to a silent, shared beat.
Between us the beating of our shy hearts.
It was not yet love, but it was a start.
