Spam Poetry: A Bit Like The Buses…

…in that you don’t see one for months, and then they all come along at once. And the driver’s a mardy bastard who tries to clip every wing mirror he possibly can. And there’s a drunk man at the front, forcing his opinion of Tom Hanks’s career on anyone who has the misfortune to get on. And the seats are sticky, and the old couple in the mobility seats stare at you like you’ve got two heads.

But I digress. Again. In lieu of Big Finish Folly (there just aren’t enough hours in the day right now, so there’s a backlog building up…) here’s another riveting attempt to encapsulate the total vacuousness of modern mundanity in nihilistically colourful free verse. I understand the writer began in iambic septameter, but quickly got bored.

You’re hired even though a service
while a professional just
particular at that.

Is your process shaped like the actual
orange, pear, hourglass or
inside and down?

Extended ago, shirts were put to use merly for inner wears.

That’s so sharp it hurts. Mmmm.


Published by


Epic Fantasist & SFSF Socialist.

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