Author: Mike Crowl

The
COLONoscopy had left battered young
HARRY in a perfectly precarious state, like a
LARVA who’d bumpily broken out of his cocoon by
SHEAR will and determination, and a misspelling of his process.   

APNEA, of the sleeping kind (naturally), is something my
ADULT little brother has. Many inducements to sleep (not of the
CANDY kind) have been offered, but nothing works. If he had an ULCER I’d hardly be surprised. But of ulcers I’ve heard not a peep.          

My
CLONE walked up to me on the street. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m the
SASSY version of you.’ This surprised me: I’m about as sassy as a
SKUNK. I said, ‘Surely clones are perfect copies,’ and abruptly
SWEPT her illusions up with a simple dustpan and brush.    

BUDGE the budgie? I think not. He’ll only start to
CHIRP fit to burst if you try to touch him. He has the
CYNIC bird’s view of life: every hand that comes near
DAUNTs him – he fears his last avian moment has arrived.
HONEYed words won’t change his view; calmly watching him
PREEN his feathers without interruption leaves a nagging doubt. A
SNARE is how he sees it, an attempt to snatch his tiny
TRACT of space on the planet, and replace him with a cat.

The
CRYPTic crossword’s clues, enigmatic in form, too intricate for a
DUNCE like me who thinks he has to reinvent the
WHEEL at every turn, proved uncomplicated for my
NOBLE friend, who showed me where my cement brain went
wrong.            

[This form of the Quordle poem is known as the Bumped Beginning and Hanging Stump style…]

My Pinot Noir is the very central PIVOT
of my evening slurp in my penthouse CONDO,
when I cease to chomp poetry and MUNCH
on the less tooth-wrenching pizza of PROSE.

With a
BRISK flick of the string tied round my
TOOTH it comes sailing out, goes off
SLOSH into the bushes, causing me to
SKULK around in the dirt trying to find it again.

I broke my ELBOW
doing the LIMBO. I
need to REVUE my
rhythm and stick TO TEMpo.

I TEASE our long, sleek, sleepy
TABBY with the excess of creeping
STYLE learned from long years of sneaking up on her. I
SCALD my hand with the newly-made coffee when she reacts.

[I can’t keep up with the continual quartets of words – they keep on coming in spite of my best efforts..!]

CROSS is how I’d describe myself, looking at the apartment:
STAINs down the walls that haven’t come from any natural process;
TATTY wallpaper – last time I checked it was intact – and the
MOULT of some unfortunate bird left to die in a stinking cage.