I'm quite determinedly not blogging about yet more inane remarks from a certain other poet-blogger, and it leaves me little brain for more productive work. But I live, most of the time, at the mouth of the Potomac, Isabel's coming to visit tomorrow, I have no idea whether I'll have electricity over the next few days, much less an internet connection, and I want to put something up before the lights go out. The form is Welsh, an awdl gywydd.
Arse Poetica
Full of myself as I was
I told a dozen bold lies
About my poems while she
Sat by me. I watched her thighs
Cross and uncross and I thought
"She's really hot for me," dead
Sure when she stood up she'd take
Me, she'd break my back in bed,
And I'd break her yearning heart
With my magic art and deft,
Hard, heavy penis. She yawned,
"I'm not fond of fools." And left.
A man whose critical judgement I trust almost completely once told me I was thinking too hard about my penis to make this poem work, but I've stayed fond of it.
7:49:26 PM 
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