The timbre of the phrase
excites me, brings the
language to life.
Some silly Hudibrastic
will send me searching
anew for well-wrought
sentences in the midst
of Hemingway's descriptions
rendering a mere
picador a hero.
Sonnets, roundelay, haiku;
my interest wanes at
the confident poet's sad
interpretation of Spenserian
majesty, of T.S. Eliot's
vision, or of Bukowski's
fine and oft mimicked
outlook on the art.
This is visceral though
and I must roll the words
around, get a taste for it,
chew it up, spit it back.
This is emotion spilled out.
It's all blue and blood red,
seeping from life to paper
and then, finally, forgotten.
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