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Poem Number 3347
Poetry needs a quiet time
When all the words are put down for a rest
When the pen and ink is idle
and the paper remains unused
A time to renew the heart
while inspiration takes a Sabbatical
mind's exhausted, a picturebook wastedump
a garbage field of guttered emotion, and molded words,
idle, unused statements scared of rising uo
because they might be shattered down, slammed on, etc., etc.,
by a pompous, unfeeling 20th century backyard critic. (By God, thats the word I was looking for)
Words come alive, I implore you, come alive!
Hurl words from the sling like scrotum of your 19th century sensibility
over our heads into the droning real of the 21 century catacombs
the halt and gurgle of the trilling ecstatic snout of poetreason
rooting in the rufous rump of song for tender dew like meaning
and all because on some yellow ersatz page some sage admonished
uo should be up, Selrachco
I feeled honored that a great poet like you felt compelled to add his lines of golden verse to a low and humble barbarian like myself. Somebody give me a hanky, I think I'm gonna cry! Selrachco
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