Echoes

Brighter writers, long since dead,
Alight, alive, inside my head,
Chiding me for counting commas.
Yes, I hear you, Dylan Thomas!
Lengthy sentences abound
In Dylan’s narratives, the sound
Of nouns, and verbs, and adjectives,
Engaging, means the poet lives.

Sphincter

When sphincter muscles come to mind
There’s one that leaves the rest behind
And that’s the one upon your bottom
(Also mine). Most folks have got ’em
Hidden when they’re fully dressed
And yet somehow we’re still obsessed
With something that’s so far from rare
That even toddlers know it’s there,
Its purpose, and its main export.
In case you’re rushed for your report,
The diagram John Venn would craft
Of Those Who Know One Sphincter’s Aft
And Those Who’d Struggle Next to Name
Another One would look the same
As one itself: Both by a quirk’ll
Look exactly like a circle.
Why that is, I should explain, is
Everybody’s favorite’s anus.

Inkblocked

Coleridge was famously
Disturbed one day whilst writing. He
Then lost the plot, and Xanadu
Was left unfinished. False or true,
The story resonates because
To lose a thing that never was
Is like when threatened sneezes fade
Ad ultimum. You feel betrayed
By forces deep inside your skull:
What should have been a blast is dull
And so far from a pleasure dome
It’s obvious your muse went home
Because she found you unexciting.
Welcome to the life of writing.