Fake Poetry

Image: Dom J

I tried to write some fake poetry

the other day, but the words came out wrong

every lie I sought came unstuck

and started ringing true

Not so much perhaps,

that I would shout about it

and run the streets searching

for some damnable publisher to take it on

But just enough that,

as I was about to discard this

rickety tissue of words

I lingered on, a moment,

to reflect if there was not

some tenuous truth

hidden inside

Not anything I could put my finger on

I am no Baudelaire or Dickinson,

no Goethe or Plath

Neruda and Wordsworth, no doubt, would wince

And yet this fake poetry I write,

I find I cannot completely disregard

For sometimes I daydream that

even the most fraudulent of words

might also be wound into

the ineffable mystery

that lies at the centre of things