Posits And Posing Poem by Andy Brookes

Apropos prose or not, inklings that tickle the senses but there you go.
the wings of fancy, well fancy that, as we wing our way across the page
only to dive bomb into a heap of flattened feathers.

'So what's the point in poetry? She says

'Good question.' I answer but then have no answerquestioning my self leads to frustration.

'Poetry is essence, a distillation of thought.' I say

'A bit genii in the bottle.'She retorts

'Or maybe.' I say 'Its lies, looking at the world as you like it to be, not in actuality but through rose tinted glasses that magnify both beauty or faults.'

'But the I have no faults.' she says 'And you are full of them and bull shit too.'

'Oh how could I forget the bull shit, when you are there ready to shovel it up and throw it in my face.'

'Not a very pleasant metaphor.' she says

'I don't think, I think, that it is a metaphor as such, more of an analogy.

'Just as well' she replies 'As you wouldn't know one if you fell over it.

So back to the original question and having no answer she scurries off to torment another such as I.

Well that's the Muse for you as unpredictable as ever