Thursday, May 24, 2018

Oh what the hell...

Well, before the call.

A change of rhythm.

"Is that how you write it?"

"Ahem. Are you listening?"

A sound.

We shall never know.

Oh what the hell.

"I may as well..."

"We may as well..."

A sound.

"What was that?"

The sound.

"Are you listening?"

Oh what the hell.

"I may as well..."

"You may as well..."

He never lived to tell.

It stopped.

Oh. What the hell.


  1. With a voice he cast a spell

    That did not vanish down a well

    That more or less rang a bell

    At least heard here where I know dwell

    An earnest yell

    Nor an ad did he sell

    Indeed, what the groovy hell.

    And I [almost] refuseed to add a line with smell.

    1. I am lost now
      in her pastels ... watching
      this artistic Mademoiselle
      dip her thick paint brush
      into ink, a final visual retell
      of a handsome rebel
      in a bandshell, playing pellmell
      in the citadel,
      as the church bell pings out
      like some alchemist's magic spell.

      So we watch with wonder,
      those of us at the windowsill,
      as she gathers
      up her paints, then she stops
      to look back once more, only
      to say with a silent smile
      more landscape than sky:

      PS -- Thus, a poem becomes doggrel.

  2. What the hell...