Wednesday, 20 March 2013

The Young Poet Only Writes to the Academic Professor

Thanks for the Original Message.
Hell, it's 6:06 PM already and I haven't started cooking dinner.
I guess Jasmine Anderson’s email doesn’t work
and the sky is very grey over Greensborough,
just like yesterday. We'd all really like a poem from her.
She’s one of the main people on our list.
But isn't she always? Damn it!
These anti-biotics are messing with my neurons.
The garden looks good with a wet path.
Utensils, too many utensils in the drawer.
'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme' is like something from another time
or Time, as they say in those comics I threw in the recycler.
Let's talk about the transfer of herbs
but as the Pope has said many times
it's an apology makes a world of difference and makes the world different…
They've been saying that for some Time, Popes.
And then there's the job.
Not that they’ve actually given it to you yet,
but you’re thinking you won’t go for it when they advertise it.
A little oregano does wonders in a bolognese sauce.
Simon and Garfunkel, their version was always too sort of Why?
We must attend without going insane in the meantime,
so something has to go…
Sometimes it really is like Ashbery, sort of.
Oh I don’t know, is it like Ashbery?
The Grand Prix? Go? Where? Singapore?
Why do they always say “It was a more innocent time”?
I'll send this thing off to Sydney and see what they do with it.
The sestinas were over-wrought, like my balcony.
There the editors write ‘country music’ poems over coffee and tart
down the back table of the Bistro.
Sad lonely ‘country music’ is how they seem to want it,
that’s what they think they’re talking about.
But it could all be one big euphemism.
At least we can’t really hear the Grand Prix over here.
Here and hear in the one sentence, not sure how that works.
No more sestinas.
And how about this rain, don’t you know…

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