Exile On Curmudgeon Street Poem by Ted Sheridan

Defensive over accusations he was artistically challenged and verbose; surely
these opinions and his lack of brevity were to be discounted or expunged.
Impugned by their cooperative blind ego, they with the dark opened eyes
and sealed envelopes, lurked behind every word he had ever penned
with dictionaries opened; awaiting his last syllable before attacking
with the forceful nature of hungry maggots on a dead cadaver.
As a young lad in elementary school his verse was flaccid by his own
admissions, but by the time his poetry and prose reached maturity
he was quite the lover of form and beauty; for within his hand he held
the answer to his dreams; hard and unrestricted. He rationalized his
right to defend his words, in so much as he had felt the need to express
the frustrations of having been conceived from a Petri dish of Cowper’s fluid,
pre-ejaculated and donated by his own ego and written in the third person.
He admired his ability to accept his genius as an intrepid badge of courage…

2008 © T Sheridan