ever i stress in monotonous serotiny

wound me and words fly out my lips

set fire to my hips and i seed into the winds of mange

thrush-loined i labor painful at the word processor

where i must bud out ideas in polypian prose

i sow my wild notes, grow my epigrammata

i flesh out the baby fat of a lardy theme or leitmotif

with neither midwife nor epidural

and lest i miscarry or typo

to the Muses and Eileithyia i pray

make my issue

Caesarean as the Bard

seminal as Angelou

lick viscera and cholic from my newborn’s brow

o olympian maidens, mount my sermon and sire me one decent poem to deliver to the masses