2014 #247

Little did a certain neophyte
poet possess a speck of occult
insight about was that a concept
invoked as a skim brand of joke
was anything but a joke to a certain
distant, completely real person
whose entire vessel network
had got so hot you could swear

you smelled brunswick stew when
he walked by if he’d walk by because he
wasn’t walking anywhere
but he was sitting in a swivel chair
and plumes of steam shot from his ears
evidence of which had easier voice
out of one ear as the other ear’s
window was muted by a telephone

and peppered words born for coarse
oration moments bore firebrands
as they were put to work, saying,
“I call because there’s a city
council woman I must suspect
is a witch and it isn’t as though
witches don’t piss me off enough
but this witch is on a crusade

against the slightest sometimes personal
vices a guy might carry on when on
his porch and harming no one.
I’d get into deeper details
except I’m already starting to get
really pissed off just thinking
about it as if I wasn’t
plenty pissed off already.”

The words turned their flames down when the voice
from the pissed off office began to reply,
starting with, “well that would piss me off too
and believe you me, we deal with pissed off people
every day. It’s what we do. It’s why we exist.
Can’t tell you how that pisses me off, that we
have to exist for pissed off people.
I’m always pissed off soon as I get here,

find my desk still cluttered as it was
because my secretary was too pissed off
to straighten it and I was too pissed off
to find the words to tell her to get lost.
Understand your witch problem,
city council witch, the worst witch
species you can find if you ask me
but then witches piss me off too.”

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in free verse, humorous, poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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