Randomness Of Beans Poem by Andy Brookes

Groups of abstracted words stitched randomly engaged to spaced marked ticks, attached by impaled crosses, lines ruled by unruly nexus, a singular plural, filling empty spaces,
it that poetry or just the randomness of numbers?

spontaneity travels not too well, souring like wine corked and bitter
or burning like hooch distilled roughly causing brain miasma,
a burning gastric reflux.

the journey only goes a to b, b to a, fig five inclusive,
PTO, circular motions are allegorical.

a laughing disdain, criticism's not well received nor welcomed
not waiting with a dripping pen inspirations flown,
door mat is retracted, like the draw bridge.

bankrupted losing my way, voice stilled, tongue stuck dumb,
who are you poet? I ask. she asks rhetorical but then who indeed.
we are all metaphors for life, of life.

the sun flowers at my window wink yellow lashes over black eyes
raising dilapidated spirits, sunny on this dull day.

disoriented in tortuous alleyways, winding transverse corridors.
toppled crossroad markers defaced RIP etched.
standing in a blue furrowed field of white at a loss what to write.

the Muse, the Hagia Sophia of verse or prose, packed her valise leaving by the five forty five to Olympus laughing all the way.
I hear her echo in my head.

a spontaneous thought baked beans on toast for tea.