If it's a slap one seeks,
look no further...
Pick a mundane pen,
write poems under the sun,
wrap it in soiled,
oil soaked crumpled newspapers,
preferably with stale news;
take it up a flight of stairs.
And when, only when it's past midnight,
light it up...
Hold it up longer,
enough to burn the fingers
which held the pen,
and also held meaning
a mere few seconds back.
Leave it there, let it burn.
Morning, read from the ashes.
Cry... Pry open the poetry chest,
search again,
soul searching, hole searching,
and write:
Some verses for posterity,
some for the next paper
to wrap the day's love and effort.
-- Leslie
