This poem is not concrete.
Every word of this poem
is simply a word – a string –
of letters ascribed to phonemes
in turn assigned meaning.

This poem is purely abstract
it only means something –
generic.

This poem was designed by
my muse, Ethyl (who has pendulous breasts
and eats far too many bananas)
to make the point that nothing
is really worth writing about.

This poem does not float on water
it soaks it up
then sinks.

This poem is not a hair care product
and if misused as such can lead to serious dandruff.

This awful poem offers no alliteration at all.

This poem has no actual quality
besides verbosity and may be ignored
completely.

This poem is not about the soul, philosophy,
love, charity, hope, faith or happiness,
except in as much as it speaks to you
directly without the explicit written consent of the poet.

This poem was half-stolen from my friend Patrick
who happened to drop it in a puddle
and leave it out to dry on the picnic table
by the old ramshackled garage we never used to play in.

This poem is unromantic, unrepentant, unredeeming
and unremedial.

This poem does not address the problem of the smurfs,
neither their promiscuity, their blue skin,
their severe song-impediments, nor their penchant
for doing mushrooms.

This poem is best served with sangria
by the water’s edge, pen in hand
whilst listening to waves.

This poem is a dish.

This poem is not a dish, I lied.

This poem is a lie.

This poem is the absolute truth.

Ethyl says this poem is the absolute truth.

No one can own the truth, and every individual’s perspective is their own subjective truth. Therefore, this poem is only the truth to Ethyl.

Ethyl is my muse – her truth is my truth.

This poem is my truth.

This is a lie, words are neither true nor false, they are constructs of ideas
which may or may not be true.

This poem floats on air.
Not like a cloud, like breaths.
Exhaled with passion.
As many times as it takes
to let them live.
They still die.

This poem can carry up to 11lbs of sand
but only in the metric system
where that means 5 kilograms.

This poem is about time.
Time exists only as a function of space.
This poem takes up no space.
This poem is therefore timeless.

This poem does not care for cheese.
Even blue cheese.
Served with peach
and pork tenderloin.

This poem is really about bacon
which makes it better.

This poem proves that I am a pig,
but does not explain how.

Oink.