04-17-2016, 11:42 PM
Thanks Milo
Truly a hideous poetry prompt -
the seventeenth stinger in a row.
No simple similes are conjuring,
no mediocre metaphor knocking
down the door - let me in, look at me!
No rebounding allegory - nothing but
bikini galoshes and cheap jokes
galore. Geez, even the search
for rhyme leaves me blubbering. Nada.
Nothing. My depression grows its
own toes in rows. So recourse it is
to the never-fail go-to option - google
image search. Poetry-plugging images
are my Holy Grail - images with some tail
shouting Hail! Hail! from the rail.
[Geez, I need a pail]. The search starts
with the word rubber. Up come pictures
of tires, treads, then rubber sheets, rubber
ducks, rubber rubber, rubber, then a rubber
blow-up girl friend, and finally google
comes around to show pictures of boobs.
The second search is for the word rubbers,
which brings up trojans and magnums,
color choices and sheep skin, ribs, and again,
with a final certainty, settles into shots
of . . . you guessed it: boobs. I don’t need
to tell you where the third and last search,
this one for things that bounce quickly lead.
Thanks, google. I can report I feel much better,
lightened, uplifted. My depression now wears
racoon slippers. A rubber duck bounces
on my lap. My blow-up girl friend
refreshes my bourbon. My poem
still sucks, but who cares?
Truly a hideous poetry prompt -
the seventeenth stinger in a row.
No simple similes are conjuring,
no mediocre metaphor knocking
down the door - let me in, look at me!
No rebounding allegory - nothing but
bikini galoshes and cheap jokes
galore. Geez, even the search
for rhyme leaves me blubbering. Nada.
Nothing. My depression grows its
own toes in rows. So recourse it is
to the never-fail go-to option - google
image search. Poetry-plugging images
are my Holy Grail - images with some tail
shouting Hail! Hail! from the rail.
[Geez, I need a pail]. The search starts
with the word rubber. Up come pictures
of tires, treads, then rubber sheets, rubber
ducks, rubber rubber, rubber, then a rubber
blow-up girl friend, and finally google
comes around to show pictures of boobs.
The second search is for the word rubbers,
which brings up trojans and magnums,
color choices and sheep skin, ribs, and again,
with a final certainty, settles into shots
of . . . you guessed it: boobs. I don’t need
to tell you where the third and last search,
this one for things that bounce quickly lead.
Thanks, google. I can report I feel much better,
lightened, uplifted. My depression now wears
racoon slippers. A rubber duck bounces
on my lap. My blow-up girl friend
refreshes my bourbon. My poem
still sucks, but who cares?