Attack

How sad it must be
to brush off last night’s chips,
open a new bag
in new mornings of nothing
and curl back
into insanity.

Mice look up
waiting for your snore.
Thieves in the night
climbing a tattered
comforter,
in an assault
determined to retake
the bounty clutched
in your numb hand.

Out in the hall,
all that is heard
are small giggles and crunch,
the assignment of conquer
fulfilled
as chip dust
becomes part of
once cozy fabric.

On Wednesday, August 24, 2022 at 12:09:58 PM UTC, blackpo...@aol.com wrote:
> Attack
>
>
> How sad it must be
> to brush off last night’s chips,
> open a new bag
> in new mornings of nothing
> and curl back
> into insanity.
>
> Mice look up
> waiting for your snore.
> Thieves in the night
> climbing a tattered
> comforter,
> in an assault
> determined to retake
> the bounty clutched
> in your numb hand.
>
> Out in the hall,
> all that is heard
> are small giggles and crunch,
> the assignment of conquer
> fulfilled
> as chip dust
> becomes part of
> once cozy fabric.

And the mice move into the kitchen for a counter attack.

(my Muse with war drums mix)

Bold things I try for it's do or let my resolve die. Don't cry but grace me with a sigh, maybe I'll get it right next try.

So I shall rely on my muse. She likes flak vests and incendiary grenades and has flame retardant pj's. She possesses switchblade wit and can handle a flamethrower if must come down to it. She doesn't mince words, she also slices 'n dices feelings with them with an extra savage dash of spice when she exclaims:
"Boring! Stuffy! Like your old couch!"
"I said imagery! For Shelley's sake, what the Hell is that, seriously?"
"Why can't you be like Poe? Or Byron? Write me a 'She Walks in Beauty.' Write me a river! Cry me an elegy! Oh, the misery! Why did they stick me with a this sappy Neoromantic wannabe!"

You methodical votaries may love your metered refinement
but this unlettered heathen is prone to incitement
unfettered by straitjacketed precepts and uncowed by your dour indictments
So strident a mess I make of this word craft, you'll have to put me away into solitary confinement
For my Muse said to Hell with meter
the Hell with conventions and rhythm
Poetic peace is a lie to lull the reader
For there's only the passion of gut wrenched prose

So shall I dare write a rhyme
on their spam- the supposed sublime
"greatness" of the poetry godhood
of proud "real" poetry's falsehood?

You see, I'm all for the brawl, I just love the writing that's inspired when the furor is flying. When things are too entrenched, too self-vested, the animosity now too deeply ingrained for anyone not to rub each other wrong....
So rather than curse, I shall put it into verse
and read it aloud the way that war drums pound
with a menacing beat, like done on the street
like it would be done to your skull 'n your lame droll,,,

I dare to do, so plenty of mistakes will be made. Mistakes are something meant to be corrected and learned from, except to nit picking, hen pecking tatty whacks who have nothing better to do other than blowing their big "real" poetry egos...

So the words will fly wild and there will be misfires.
And verb jams. And ill planned "witty" wham-bam-ihank you ma'ams...
Stop the presses! This mess of grammar incorrectness must be redressed!
Cases, clauses and misnomer charges must be pressed!

Nevertheless we run a mad vocabulary laboratory
better than the stinkin' Columbus lavatory
and its "real poetry" scrawled on dirty walls
by one-liner shit slingers having no poetry balls!
Stringing syllables and stitching in synonyms
to abuse adjectives and misconstrue prepositions
for "prose" propositions alluding lewdly
Adverbs we use for verbal assault and battery
And my words will be splattered
all over grammar murder scene walls

This is will be the winter of my discontent
I'll have to be content with sowing woe upon my foes
So it sounds like braggery 'bout the Bard by dullards
but I will borrow however I wish and feel no sorrow
'cause of the hollow bravado of those real poetry guanos

You just know I'm going to be taking this further, places where no verses have been before. And I get the impression that my prose goes over just as well with you all-- like a wrecking ball

On Saturday, February 25, 2023 at 12:50:53 PM UTC-5, Ash Wurthing wrote:
> (my Muse with war drums mix)
>
> Bold things I try for it's do or let my resolve die. Don't cry but grace me with a sigh, maybe I'll get it right next try.
>
> So I shall rely on my muse. She likes flak vests and incendiary grenades and has flame retardant pj's. She possesses switchblade wit and can handle a flamethrower if must come down to it. She doesn't mince words, she also slices 'n dices feelings with them with an extra savage dash of spice when she exclaims:
> "Boring! Stuffy! Like your old couch!"
> "I said imagery! For Shelley's sake, what the Hell is that, seriously?"
> "Why can't you be like Poe? Or Byron? Write me a 'She Walks in Beauty.' Write me a river! Cry me an elegy! Oh, the misery! Why did they stick me with a this sappy Neoromantic wannabe!"
>
> You methodical votaries may love your metered refinement
> but this unlettered heathen is prone to incitement
> unfettered by straitjacketed precepts and uncowed by your dour indictments
> So strident a mess I make of this word craft, you'll have to put me away into solitary confinement
> For my Muse said to Hell with meter
> the Hell with conventions and rhythm
> Poetic peace is a lie to lull the reader
> For there's only the passion of gut wrenched prose
>
> So shall I dare write a rhyme
> on their spam- the supposed sublime
> "greatness" of the poetry godhood
> of proud "real" poetry's falsehood?
>
> You see, I'm all for the brawl, I just love the writing that's inspired when the furor is flying. When things are too entrenched, too self-vested, the animosity now too deeply ingrained for anyone not to rub each other wrong...
> So rather than curse, I shall put it into verse
> and read it aloud the way that war drums pound
> with a menacing beat, like done on the street
> like it would be done to your skull 'n your lame droll,,,
>
> I dare to do, so plenty of mistakes will be made. Mistakes are something meant to be corrected and learned from, except to nit picking, hen pecking tatty whacks who have nothing better to do other than blowing their big "real" poetry egos...
>
> So the words will fly wild and there will be misfires.
> And verb jams. And ill planned "witty" wham-bam-ihank you ma'ams...
> Stop the presses! This mess of grammar incorrectness must be redressed!
> Cases, clauses and misnomer charges must be pressed!
>
> Nevertheless we run a mad vocabulary laboratory
> better than the stinkin' Columbus lavatory
> and its "real poetry" scrawled on dirty walls
> by one-liner shit slingers having no poetry balls!
> Stringing syllables and stitching in synonyms
> to abuse adjectives and misconstrue prepositions
> for "prose" propositions alluding lewdly
> Adverbs we use for verbal assault and battery
> And my words will be splattered
> all over grammar murder scene walls
>
> This is will be the winter of my discontent
> I'll have to be content with sowing woe upon my foes
> So it sounds like braggery 'bout the Bard by dullards
> but I will borrow however I wish and feel no sorrow
> 'cause of the hollow bravado of those real poetry guanos
>
> You just know I'm going to be taking this further, places where no verses have been before. And I get the impression that my prose goes over just as well with you all-- like a wrecking ball

I dare to do, unlike you whippin' fools. A struggle to do what you take for granted but still I must do or languish, to rot and slowly perish.
Your bleeding hearts do nothing but muddy the well's waters, making it a kiddies' wading pool, not of wisdom but just foolish wishes. Your intentions just become dead weight dragging me down, drowning me with your cloying sympathies. It's it just your pulled heart strings you feel or true empathy?