Poem as splint

or crutch; the one to straighten,
the other to keep the weight on.

So he sings, who would splutter
out some crud on weather, but

instead another plinth resounds.
My mind is unmadeupable.

Pistol-whip the butler. Pluck
his eyes with a decorative spoon.

Prepare the necessary length
and tuck behind the ear like so;

the slightest tug and whoops!
we’re back in marketing –

you scour demographics on the web
while I prepare the pitch in Vulcan.

It’s a funny thing about a text:
the deeper you get inside

its sheath, the emptier it seems.
Commentary is everything –

like a novel read in footnotes
or a technical manual in Japanese

for the newly blind.


  1. GT says:

    Yeah, I like both these poem-as poems. The topiary is a bit wilder and I’m having trouble making connections through the leaps, but I enjoyed the lines. I’m picking up references vaguely (Lear, Nabokov, Cluedo?) and I just saw Star Trek (which was both entertainingly dumb and unspeakably gash), so Vulcan seems more pop-ref than Hephaestusish.

    The closing two lines here iz k-ill-er konsept, bruv.

  2. Tom says:

    Thank thee Maestro! There are two more poem-as pieces further down the blog (‘as punctured lung’… ‘as bullet’). I’m enjoying writing them!

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