...I am gob-smacked.

Here in Poems there be ill-blood. There seems to me to be shit and vengeance. I thought Here be poems but nay there be naught but biting and rending and much ill feeling.

We have here the genesis of thought made palatable. We have charlatans rocking their words web-wise, we have the very, oh so very indignant. Who would have thought that the creative process was such a treacherous place? Not I. To be confrontational allow me to say that not a bone shivered in my dead dead corpse.

Anyway here is an absolute fave of mine, by my own gnarled and useless fingers it is not:

You're

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling in your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your face on.

(yum)