I am in love with a thoughtless, self-centered poet who regularly drives me into constant despair. On the upside this anguish has fueled 149 books and still writing. Should I continue this suffering and write another 149 books or shall I entertain a new line of work? One that doesn't involve thoughtless, self-centered poets and massive sad creation?
Apeish sunflower, holy thorn
snapdragoning up my canvas
my blue agates, my orchid moss all nigh long.
Nothing grieved, horn toned
spiking lotus, this decree varnished.
See also: Eloquence
See also: A hummingbird, she suckled my man
Did you know that 149 is the 35th prime number? When I was 35, I was in my prime. I am now 37, and 37 is also a prime number. But we veer from the issue.
Let's work backwards, beginning with the possibility of you taking up other employment. What else do you know how to do? I've said it before, quoting Robert Townsend: There's always work at the post office. Except I hear that in the current economic crisis, even regular government work ain't so jump steady, Black Betty (bam-a-lam).
Can you take shorthand? (This is not a double-entendre.)
As far as being in love with a thoughtless, self-centered poet and the constant despair he drives you to. Poets are good at putting the right words in the right order. Sometimes they are good at other things as well. Like drinking, screwing, and heart-breaking. Also: getting drunk, getting screwed and getting heart-broke. So it goes both ways. (This is also not a double-entendre.) How many books of his have you inspired? More than you can accurately guess, I'll bet. The upside of anguish is that it glistens in the moonlight. And yet suffering's only true cure is ignorance. Once we bite the apple, we can no longer not know what it tastes like.
And your stanza. The agate stands out as the one-a-these-kids-is-doin'-his-own-thing image. The rest are botanical. But it's an aggressive botany. The sunflower is apeish (apish?), the lotus spikes, the holy thorn dragon-snaps (put 'snapdragoning' into the present tense non-gerund form, btw, and cut the following 'up'). Perhaps instead of "Expression" you might call it "Massive Sad Creation." Or: "A humming bird suckled my man."
Oh, the agates. I definitely wouldn't cut the image, but try and exploit further its uniqueness in the stanza. I think, too, you lack one verb up in 'dere somewheres. Is this a poem directed towards Mistah 149? Perhaps this is the way to 'expression' your anger? If that's the case, then consider adding one or more of the following images: a bloody pen-knife, a punt-like kick in the groin, the sentence "his wiener is smaller than a cocktail wiener", ground glass in a homemade pudding, a bloody Bowie knife, a bloody straight razor. Harness your anger, young Edna, and make it artful. You know who's really good at doing that?