#cloche — Public Fediverse posts on home.social

Poe M

I had a lovely chat with Mr. Poe.
The Tell-Tale Heart is dead you know.
Twas in a gutter where he lay,
De Grave is the special of the day,
and Sylvia's supper is silence-fraught,
'neath airless glass forever caught,
while Emily's friends assist her decay.
Did I hear a fly buzz when a chariot
rolled away?

Here, death comes to the so-called gifted too,
with shriveled face and a pompous hairdo
to hand out the awards with a toothy grin.
She gives me one more honorable mention,
old as the hills with the hand of a child,
scribbles on a page, satisfied smile, 
simple-minded pupils, but they'll catch her gaze,
feasting on the tutor's highly-seasoned praise.

I leave with a bitter taste on my tongue, 
my thoughts on writers who died too young, 
and fossils mumbling weird poetry, 
leaving no room at the table for me.

The soup's rather tasteless, though I am sure it is wet. 
Pardon me, but I've already 'et, 
and I've had my fill of "no" and "not yet,"
So I won't be ordering from your menu, 
thou Poet Laureate.

June 1988 (rewritten June 2026)

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