Goodness, how time is a bitch,
you relentless goddess of hunger,
a tell-tell hobberchord
like a mix of pleases and feasible entry.
Time will tell, time will toll, time will yell.
I am the benefactor of the word yes:
my life-vest is a blimp
and my youth in shambles.
Before yesterday, I was wondering,
and that gave me great heartburn.
There is little left to see, little by little
left to be thankful for, yes.
Honoring Pound and Eliot today,
I think to make an allegory
of a forgotten time and place
like the inside of a shoe on a Monday.
Boundless and tired, she sits
in a Victorian chair, velvet red
like her lips, a handful of cats
scattered around the room.
Waking from my waking, breakfast
comes in when I ring the bell.
I am a servant of my servant,
a master of my creased appendix.
Undoubtedly yours, yeast rises and sets:
this is a metaphor for something.
I cannot place my finger on it,
but I believe it has to do with sex.
Wasteful, wasteful – I plan and plan
and only became a man today,
my beard - a stain on my face.
I am the guitar of monotony.
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.