Like hodgepodge pudding
Heterogeneous and discombobulated,
Interloped by slugs of rotten cherry,
Pit and all,
And some brackish weed,
Like a pickled bok choy.
You’d have to wonder,
How a mind can come to be,
So positively poisoned.
I suspect it has to do,
With eating habits,
Omnivorous and ravenous.
I mean, intellectually speaking,
You are what you eat,
And you are what you do.
Well, what if all you do is ingest,
And never divest, disgorge,
Produce?
Surfeit and constipated,
The brain corpulates,
Perhaps releasing now and again,
Tendrils of poetry,
False-start fictions,
An original idea, even,
But no considerable culinary delight,
Fit for the table.
I need a purge,
An aesthetic emetic,
A bout of creative bulimia,
Whose production is personal-voiced vomit,
Synthesized from the chunks,
And dollops of my predecessors,
The inevitability of influence,
Generating own artistic affluence.
