The advert says per, per, per, pick up a penguin,
but when I ber, ber, begin to per, per, pick up a pen
my plans stutter and splutter
from the words that dance out of your mouth:
“Are you writing a poem?”
you ask and instead of basking in your asking
and interest I become distressed.
A per, per, per, poem?
I then think and sink in the expectation
of what a poem is and what creates the greats.
Ovid when in love, Lord above,
what a slut.
He builds up his emotions and desires,
purging the truths of his loins and fires
only to turn and burn those he desires…
may the God’s sting him as his tales have stung
those women he loved with the tail of a scorpion.
Or the odes of Shakespeare,
I look at thou’s lips so ripe for thine plucking
and that body so bloody in need of a fucking.
The smut of Billy Childish
He dus what he dus so well.
A pure man of pure words
whether of buti or ugliness.
My per, per, poem.
What is that going to be about?
and how can it shout to the greats
as they wave at the gates
of the ultimate poets party
when you my dear,
my der, der darling,
can not just shut up and let me write it.