Why did you even bother? she said,
her voice a shrill and questioning siren
smiting him right upon his crinkled brow
like a smoothful stone hurled from the sling
of some crazy catapult’s foolish frightened
introverted now but outer hebridean
drowning lowly browness (yes the colour
and the dreaded level too). Although
it matters not a bloody jot if the ship sinks
slightly into view. Again and so she rankled
with that temple-beating bleating tone:
Why did you even bother? [He groaned]
Gathering himself together like a
formerly frag(de)mented trooper
whose curveballed trajectory grooves
across the nightsome sky like a groping
vapour trail (although in truth he’s never
hotly certain why) he soon and tightly replied:
“I too hastily get caught up in moving objects.
Like a firefly chasing its incandescent tail
I follow the flames. If it glows there I go.”
But here is a fact of some notable worth:
Each time he shakes out his creased-up shirt
that firefly ceremonially falls to the earth!
So do not ever speak so glib of love & stuff
you blinkered hooded war-embedded
frozen-threaded fairweather friends.
Anagram instead its other-wordly shape
then put a sharply acuted accent on the
final lonesome worn-out worthless “e”.
Only then will you fully come to see that
what you wowly growl as love is little more
than a worn and wasteful drooling bluff
a protest-too-mucher’s floating piece of fluff.
© 2012, Alan Morrison