Flailing along a wet regatta,
cox-less hessian bag at the
bottom of a straight boat.
Tired of writing for rowers.
At snail laptop fuming I wait.
Tea tastes like sharp jaguars,
crack my hands off doorways
like they were trampolines.
Nothing mysterious it is.
Like driving to Ireland from Africa.
The friends you lose and cherish
round the clock as tickertape
parades herald your new verse.
Not allowed into a choir we are.
Men sing with men, women
sing hot biscuits from the oven.
Culture-jam on toast, screw it,
lid off, no great joy is buttered.
Today's poem is based on suggestions from six peeps:
- @GretasTARDIS: "gay romance! Clocks! Ireland!"
- @quadelle: "Cookies. Snails. Trampolines. Yes?"
- @lucyrogue: "choir."
- @greenspace01: "cherishing, mysterious, and doorways"
- @mlledelicieuse: "I'd like one written in yoda speech pls: object-subject-verb" (I did the first line of each stanza for you.)
- @tiggyjohnson: "Can I make a suggestion/request for tomorrow's #poemsbyrequest that you write about being sick of writing"