Better off with a guitar

Better off with a guitar

I can speak of your eyes,

And not only compare them to the sea,

To the emerald, I can do more,

I can light them up in magnolias,

As anaphors flow out my mouth

With metaphors, and hyperboles, and rhymes,

Your eyes, sunlight raining in the autumn,

Your eyes, music trapped in wind;

Your eyes of burning jasmine,

And here I remain, quite fed up

For I can’t say much of your mind,

Even though it’s easy to rhyme

It is, frankly; quite blind.

And upon rising my voice

To reach some glorious ending

I get stuck, abandoned without choice

My waffle and my trite verses descending,

And I am so bored of your eyes

For it is not there where I look

As I fall into demise

And I vomit on my book,

And I never drag you to bed

And I make no anagram with your body

And I never give you head

Because this poem is lame and shoddy.

And here is where I always end,

Alone, and flaccid, and misspend

As I remember what my friend said

While sucking his cigar:

If you want to fuck,

You’d better play the guitar.