How… Floe N’ice Tubby In The Throes…


(breaking free of writer's block)

Asper this instance,
when a dearth of ideas
like a charred bait oven
finds me looking Bach
at drawing board and/or the clock
as if inspiration
can be found teasing out
whimsical child like spontaneity

recalling hickory dickory dock
rather than exacerbate
mental paralysis, akin
to an invisible vice grip,
which tension eventually
far worse than bill
lee esse ness, which former
grips with irony my chin,

I try release sing restraint and chill,
ready to whip out power drill
not surprised finding sawdust,
viz of course after numbing skull
sticking head in deep freeze
or mounting temple
on dry ice, without
receiving nary a cavil

lack of creative noggin fill
intense concentration
invariably heats up "thinker"
as if being scalded
on a barbecue grill
(which fixed attention),
never ever engenders
positive flow of ideas,

but absolutely ideal
for reducing a mole hill
from a mountain
nonetheless within ma mind,
before long prolonged
cessation to brain
storm induces ill
humor succumbing into

torturous mental state
(fall of the cider
house rules usher),
non poe whet
tick dark age,
whar ah felt jill
ted loom min hated
with panic ready to kill...

mice elf (Stuart Little),
cuz dem lil
cerebral cogs and wheels
malfunction for more'n a mill
yen times prompting
to scout graveyards
for fresh corpse, and
if results rendered nill

jet over to Doctor Frankenstein,
even if aye gotta
hightail to Trans sill
vein ya, unless....
perhaps ye kind reader twill
donate yar viable gray matter tummy
(right after ya die) denny ya will
almost be im mort till!

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