Going, Going, Gone Fishing

~ qbit
Let’s use poems like can openers!I’m lost in the isles of ACME, nobody knows where the can of worms might be.
Reader? Can you take a quick whack at it for me on Google or Amazon?
Sixteen bucks??!?!
I couldn’t wait, just did it myself. Reader – good help is hard to find. Can you please, please step it up?
Open the SpaghettiOs of personal history.When worms arrive dead.
Reader, I agree this is not your fault.
And I accept your reticence in the matter of the SpaghettiOs.
What other fun can we have with blades and gears?Oh, yes, beware Tin Man!
Or Aluminum Man, or whatever.
Cell phone ringing…It’s you, Reader! What? Yes, I have violated the fourth wall, opened the tiffin of poems, the Tupperware of nightcrawlers.
A wriggling, moveable feast.
You prefer SpaghettiOs. Fine.
The container arrived, says “minced bloodworms.”Blood and dirt a muddy soup.
Pour, heat, and serve.

The Sunday Muse

20 thoughts on “Going, Going, Gone Fishing”

  1. You slice metal buildings with poems Qbit!!! I love the idea of a poem being a can opener and the dialogue with the reader is brilliant! We have missed your brilliant word craft my friend!!

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  5. I have got to try this, qbit… how do you go about it, exactly? is there a particular approach that you take? I just love it – it’s like the Picasso style of poetry to me…

    Much love,
    David [ben Alexander]

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  6. Going going gone, i saw the title and immediately thought you were taking a break from blogging and my heart sank. You would be missed.

    We live in a world filled with mis-information and the more one fishes with the net the more rotten food for thought one will find.

    Another brilliant piece!

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  7. the sound of can openers, much like poetry, always makes me salivate… damn that pavlov and his evil blood worms! (also, raw shrimp works well) enjoyed this qbit, really liked the form

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  8. I’m smiling even as I know there is something very unlaughable in that can of worms, and it isn’t Spaghettios. Brash, sly, wry, creative, and many more adjectives come to mind–all of them falling just a bit shy of how good this is.

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  10. No one but you, dear twisted genius pal of mine, would ever think of having the speaker of the poem receive a call from the reader mid-opus. it is nothing but brilliant, wrong, disturbing and fab. Spaghetti-O’s anyone? And blood wine for the Klingons.

    Liked by 1 person

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