Doomed

Flowery effulgence! Self-indulgence. Be a bee:
the stark embodiment of driven purpose.

Engage in the creation of a simple singularity.
Yesterday you fried four sausage patties,

cut them into bits and fixed them with the volupté
of Campbell’s onion gravy, into which you dropped

and mixed the contents of a microwaved pack
of organic peas – saucy brown and emerald –

and an added cup or two of little pasta shells,
and too much salt (well, not too much for you)

resulted in a very tasty stew. You ate it and
your life seemed fine, which somehow made you

think you ought to prune back every line you’ve
lately over-larded with too many colons,

semi-colons, dashes and subordinately wafting
clauses – qualifying parenthetical attempts

at nuance which quite frankly weren’t singing
very clearly. Brevity! Be that bee. But then an urge

for ice cream overtook, and soon you found
yourself between a book on Henry James and

licking several dollops of whipped cream off your
moustache – somehow stoking flames for sex.

You’re doomed to the complex.


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