Ode to an Ugly Poet.

The floppiest golden locks,
like pieces of silken sunshine,
adorn your crown.
And that wry smile.
They wait on your every word
as if it could sustain them
indefinitely.

They swoon at your emerald eyes.
Emerald because
it makes a sound so mellifluous and smooth
as it trickles and ripples from your moist lips.
Emerald because
it always seemed the colour
that a poet’s eyes
should be.

The casual flick of the wrist,
a flash in the dark recesses of your mind,
and heaven on earth on paper is created.
Ready to be published,
marketed,
used,
stolen.

Yours the face on every cover issue,
yours the name on every pair of fleeting lips,
you the flavour of this eternal, ethereal month.

Every poet must dream.

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7 thoughts on “Ode to an Ugly Poet.

  1. You have a way with words….. forgive the imagery but it’s almost as if you’re giving birth to your lines, you write intimately, with a sense of miracle, beauty and although maybe not the most important but still noticeable ingredient: pain.
    Love it….. if that’s not too hypocrital….

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