The Poetry Monster  

The Poetry Monster paid me a visit today
Like he does, pretty much every Tuesday.
He slithered into my office
Like a pissed off garden slug
And gave me a withering glance
as he eyed my empty computer screen.
Loosing an effluent sigh
he wondered aloud
Why
I even bothered to try.

The Poetry Monster heaved his gelatinous bulk
onto the edge of my desk
Generously splattering file folders and half written projects
on loose leaf
With droplets of stinking brown ooze.
He cocked his head
And casually crossed what I surmised were his legs.
At least, they appeared to be two stumps with thick hairy bumps
Situated where his knees should be.
He fixed me with an oily stare
And began
The usual Tuesday morning lecture.

“You’re not a poet and you don’t even know it,”
He began, snorting loudly and wetly at his own unintentional poem.
“To you, metaphors are exercise equipment folded in half,
hidden under the bed,
and brought out only to hang wet laundry on in your basement.
And similes?
You use similes like old ladies set their tables at Christmas,
Hauling out the same old tired china pattern
they were given on their wedding day
like it was their own flesh and blood.
And like those faded plates
Your similes are hopelessly out of date.
And you want to talk rhymes?
Oh, I’ll talk about your rhymes,” he scoffed.
Before I abruptly cut him off.

“Hey,” I said, so eloquently,
digging deep for the courage to launch my comeback.
“I don’t rhyme all the time”.
I knew then that I was not going to win this attack.

I lamely explained that my similes were as sharp as tacks
And my metaphors were a breath of fresh air,
beautiful as a sunrise, and cute as bug in a rug.

My hole had been dug.

And sadly, my defense was becoming weaker with every argument.
And the Poetry Monster knew it.
The glint in his one orange eye
Was smug. Belittling. And mean.
And it was just enough to drive me up from my chair
And pull out a three-hole puncher from my middle desk drawer
And declare
all-out war.

I beat the Poetry Monster till he was nothing but a line of slime

This is not a metaphor.

Splatters of brown matter were covering the floor.
“What’s wrong with telling it like is,” I cried.
“Why does everything have to be black as a coalminer’s lung?
Soft as your grandmother’s last breath,
And held in a grip as icy as death”?
What if I just wanted to kill you, Poetry Monster,
Just…like…this.”

And with that I sproinged my computer keyboard out of its cable
And before he was able to hide
I thwacked him with a splat
And smugly told myself that this creative use of onomatopoeia
Was a truly brilliant idea.
And with a bit of alliteration I thwacked and I throttled and I thrashed
Until the Poetry Monster was quite smashed
Quite literally.

And all was silent.

A barely audible groan could be heard from the floor
As the Poetry Monster summoned the last of his strength
And headed for the door.
I collapsed behind my desk,
a little out of sorts from this sudden and violent fit of rage.
Before I turned to the empty page
that awaited my words on my computer screen
I muttered under my breath,
“I hope you rot in hell.
“You evil stinking Poetry Monster Geek.”
Well, at least I hope you do,
until you slither back into my office
Next week.

© 2006 Jan Mann