The twisted carnage of a poem wrecked

It’s happy hour
a writer’s frenzy
print whatever you want
readers wait anxiously
but in the mayhem
thoughts travelling on
a line crash head on
into an on coming stanza,
words splattered dead
across the page where
a verse clings to life
somewhere in the carnage
the meaning is out there
grammar strewn across
a road of vocabulary debri
litters the mind
but who cares
the poetic police haven’t arrived
onto the murder scene
happy hour is now over
it’s time for a getaway
I don’t have a license
the ambulance is taking
my thoughts away and
I’m letting my mouth
do all the shooting.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

such a cool metaphor here and what an ending to top it off.
I hear the shots, and the sirens...
I am covering my words up trying to protect them...
but it's a mass shooting and the road is littered with would-be poems.

j.

[Chris Shaw]

the poetic police
haven't arrived onto the murder scene

Clever use of metaphor here Andrew and your lines get a wide smile from me. A fun write. Happy hour in poetry, that's hilarious.

Chris