A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

but aren't they all random?

Tuesday, December 08, 2020

Pretext glitch

I admire my effortless yet impossibly
belabored efforts in the prose line, and 
I think we could possibly write a book 
if you supply the good character. I have 

a plot 

but I'm afraid we can't, because united 
in such acts of fervid and fecund creation

we would fall in love so fast we'd deny 
we always were, and that 

my friend 

would spoil the fucking plot! Dead 
giveaway city! How does one (or 
in this case {hypothetical} two) write 
(or cowrite) a goddamn book with 
a riveting plot that just sums up 
how beautifully flawless the story 
wends while fucking it up the exact 
same way for real, and get it to sell? 

Notoriety, fame - let's concede - are 
at least two cards in the pack we had 
hopefully shuffled and cut, and dealt. 

But a job like I just described, no matter
how tastefully-cooked couldn't beat 
the smell

It's "fantastic, incredible, too much 
so of both" - scream the jacket quotes 
nope, no: nix. If we can't think up 
a better plot than neither of us wants 
to arc or twist, then I say the whole 
damn deal has skipped out on us 
- and we've only ourselves to kiss
goodbye. Better yet shake hands! 

Deal's a deal, fair's fair, and nobody
understands. Why

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