The Thing From Bloggy Swamp

"Music is real--the rest is scenery." Fats Waller

Con Chapman

Con Chapman
Boston, Massachusetts, US of A
September 28
. . . is the author of over fifty books--some with paper!--available on and elsewhere.

JANUARY 31, 2013 8:37AM

Her Poetry Sucked

Rate: 3 Flag

She was frail, and lithe and wan--
Most delicate thing I'd laid eyes on.
I'd have killed to possess her by usufruct--
Except for one thing: her poetry sucked.

She had silver threads among the gold
that suggested loves once young, now old.
I'd have fallen for her like a loaded dump truck--
Except for one thing: her poetry sucked.

"Please read this for me, and see what you think,"
She said as she passed me her paper and ink.
"I'm not sure it works," she modestly clucked.
I had to agree: her poetry sucked.


I scanned her lines--it was clear she had not.
I tried to make sense of what she had wrought.
"It's . . . different," I said, as her hair she plucked.
I concealed my conclusion: her poetry sucked.

I found myself poetically unstimulated,
but I was aroused, and so I dissimulated.
You see, in order for me to get . . . uh, laid
I couldn't have told her: her poetry sucked.

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If that is your standard for dipping your diddle,
Get used to playing solo on your own fiddle. R
Don't worry, the speaker's entirely fictional
and so I don't worry about his . . . uh . . . dicktional.
A heightened, insouciant greed and lust toward 'that good night' possibly negates the subjectivity of why--such gloomy damage.
Ignorance of usufruct now allayed. (r - for making me hear Spike Jones sound effects punching up every stanza)
I used my usufruct so much now I'm fructed.