I began like an indiscreet crumpet
With holes in my poetry.
I’m no perfect poet, I’m just policing words,
Controlling their traffic,
With my baguette like limbs,
And all I want is, to be, just like a pancake,
Defined by an equation, approximating
To flaw-deficiency, and yet
I will only be good around the curves
On outer surfaces, mere perimeters.
I am culpable of being the bagel poet
With a huge hole in the middle
On which I pour chocolate sauce on
To make me as sweet as a donut and yet
I’m as dark as a pumpernickel, chiseling
A love poem which approximates to a ciabatta
And yet I’m just a loaf of fruit bread, with raisins
In it. My body, and my poetry, are tender for the commoner’s tongue,
The tit-bits of which I molest my ego with.
Some batter-fried vanity,
If I may, for some long-due love,
On the bathroom mirror.