Any and any googled far and few,
found a penny who with woe
did damn dim, and would wow can’t, if
—(only when and by and then)—
she’d see September shed her coat.
“…now if a fish who had a few—
a phew a phew (not too many,
but two too many one and one is two)
then, not if, her see-saw-will achoo an ill;
on or over wet October, matters nill.”
So as if day or as if when, wanton went,
and as if night or as if book, sleep has sent,
and as if truth or as if mirror mirrored youth
candle lit, book bit in bit; shirt, sock, shoe,
liver hand glue, all the quire sang sung ado.
And on and on the quipping whip went weeping
while fortune found, September, stood sleeping,
and would not for not by not if not knew
no thing greater than a Trojan horse.
“Aye Old September, old September…”
So any asked any what September said,
and all and all she cried, “Stay in bed!”
And as why went when done damned dim,
and though so sighed some simple grin,
was found fun where was was one
for one and one are always, one.
–
I posted this crap up because I thought it sounded nice (and sometimes that’s enough for poetry), even though meaning is so hindered by the poem being so ironically, freely open to interpretation. I wrote it on morphine, so what the hell can I say? (And since I was drug induced, I can’t claim all these lines are my own, rather than simply recycled bits from my unconscious).
Yeah… I sort of,