Wednesday, January 1, 2014

It is a poem upon a plate, a pâté of poïesis, fat, fat
poïesis, a giant’s poem, a poem of rumpled plums.
Fie, fie for so much plump poïesis, fee-fie-fo-fum,
such lascivious labials, fie-fum, licentious liquids,
fee-fie, frittered plantain fricatives. Pardon, pardon
such rude and bulging blues, these rustic reds
which ought to be a famished, fusty gold. Forgive
the prinking pinks. Sorry about the orange-vermeil.

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