More bad poetry to inspire you.

Okay. Obviously Jack is too busy with more important stuff. It had better be his bad novel. And, as I said, I refuse to submit my icky love poems from high school or even college. And I have nothing to say about writing bad poetry. For now, at least. So here's another, more recent, bad poem that I wrote. And, let me say also, that I will not be writing love poetry during the month of May, either. I have given up writing the stuff altogether, though I do love to read love poems still. I am going out on a limb and only writing about mundane, prosaic matters like stale loaf bread or pigeon droppings.

Let me bunk up in your head
and make an axon dendrite bed,
beside your stream of consciousness
where alpha waves will soothe my rest.

I'll ponder the mystery of your meninx
as though it was the riddlesome Sphinx.
I'll be the soul-searching Pizarro or Cortez,
pushing though ganglion and neocortex.

Your social constructs would be a find;
I'd like to climb them, if you wouldn't mind,
and see a flock of ideas in flight
from that heady and vertiginous height.

And I don't see why I can't be
privy to your escapist fantasy
and spend a lovely afternoon
in an imagined Paris in a delusional June.