Refrain

My starving wife has begged me, please, no more poesy. Throw away your allusions and aimless alliteration. Oh! This thing is like this thing, is it? Grow up. We have scant need for assonance, conceited consonance. I cannot eat your recycled metaphors – mongrel verse Frankenstein-stitched with doggerel. Enjambment that limps, rather than runs… Mortgage all stanzas! Volta, basta! Pack up your pastiche and dismantle your puns – couplets should be the first to go. What is a rhyme other than a narcissist winking at himself, time after laboured time? The meter is up; pathetic fallacy is exactly that. Iambs shall be sent to slaughter. I will find no peace till your turgid prosody, imbecilic similes and caesuras cease. Free yourself, darling, from the stress of weighing each syllable as if they were sacred. Please, she asks. Lie down next to me and play a song on my xylophone ribcage. Your words are not wanted now.