Rhetoric of the Mind.

Boorish words fall out of my mind across a page so white.
Is this what great poets accomplish, a drivel of the mind, a sludge that distends from me to you?
No, this is emotion wonderland, a through the rabbit hole tumble to the topsy turvy world of Ben.
There is no great poet; only man, no contemporary English genius in hiding within I; only me.
A curvy frame belies an interest in the obvious.
You’re distracted by the pretty girl, and her enormous breasts hang in your vision.
Maybe there is nothing beyond her breasts; a seemingly infinite reality is etched on her soft flesh.
A reality of many options, luminous statues roped off to the touch.
The bent frames of a social enterprise, thousands of years of thought piled in a heap, reach for the stars!
What happens to the old ideas?
Where do my metaphors go to die?
I hope it’s not my imagination,
littered with already lost initiative,
now running from my searching eye.

Author's Note

This was written by Ben Lingemann.
Please do not plagiarize, All Rights Reserved.