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Art and War Part I

Every poem in the world begins

with a slick, a slip, a virgin chord-

A light to leave you wanting more.

An oven to put your head in, Mother!

A face to make yours fade away, I’m

feeling, I’m feeling! And so it refrains.

Odysseus crosses an ocean and

finds- little more than Mona Lisa’s

beady eyes. Seven feet up the wall

and tiny. What’s more, tonight

me and Odysseus are crying. Drinking

cheap champagne and whining-

Because we have no battles to fight.

Because I’m blue eyed and Odysseus

is white. And I had no want to write

about the plight of fellow women-

So we talk about our feelings, and

we talk about our feelings! And we talk

about our feelings till our feelings refrain.

As the hours drunkly wind, Odysseus

takes up painting. A Masterpiece!

A pure design! We’re artists, girl-

The world for us aching! But everything

on canvas looked an empty Jackson

Pollock. The sketches on the floor

revealed a poorly drawn Matisse.

The hero in his underwear did crumple

to the floor and beg- “This is where

every poem ends!” It is not the end.

Published by Anonymous Captain K

Captain, EGOT, Astrophysicist, Speller of Astrophysicist Without Spellcheck, Cartographer, Breaker of Elbows While Rollerblading in my House.

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