One dreary November
by Michael Witkowski
afternoon, on a cup of tinsel
and cream with water, in
the Abbeyhole Road Tavern Cafe
for budding experimentivists,
imaginists, sonists and crabtreeists,
two holy meagre postures conversed
Clad in bakers apron, twiddledy cat hat and
morky shoes - not to say purky pants
Was Ms. Simple, a librarian of base
endeavours, who always played with his twiddledy cat,
a cross of Siamese and black cat -bad lucks' fetish
He turned sour with disgrace for anticipation of a
weekend without his creamy Siamese black
In the lost corner of the Tavern, a lost souls'
nook was cringing with sad sobs a Miss
Artifice, who always claimed the best for
her world - mundane as she was. Her worldiness
exceeded her grace - she plumped for the no
reserve resolve - bare all togs, strips, graments
stand the judgement of the world on her own devices
without sham covers.
Ms. Simple and Miss Artifice could not make their
tracks of thoughts cross each other as they
conferred- Ms: Simple vowed: 'Simple is an Art'
Who carries giant shells to the well, risks their
rupture- out and overstretched their meaning, blown up
their wordy apparition, shiny surface but murky
innards. True but siimple hits hearts quicker. Brain
grasps simple shells faster
There Miss Artifice barged in- take your bowdy
lowliness and coarse language! I prefer refined
words as i am literate, elite, grand and splendid.
Who wants noble ideas wrapped up in trite
ramblings? Surely the low and uneducated!
These women are still
marketing their precipes
today - who will follow