The Bookshop


It pulls the Sun across the sky
with wool that’s spun of plots and tied
to far-off wonder lost nearby.
As warp drives run, space-time will fly
and tear asunder passersby
and dear assumptions underly-
ing vapid slumps they occupy.
Climactic undertakers cry:
The chosen one’s about to die
but Chekhov’s gun’s return is nigh,
And set to stun, it acts, whereby,
the battle won, the other guy
has just begun to say, “Goodbye!
Now I’ve got funner fish to fry”
when all he’s done is shoved awry,
as next someone will dare reply:

“Do you have money? Won’t you buy?
It’s eighteen-hundred hours and I
should shelve the unbought books and try
to count demand and resupply.”

 

I started a poem and a song parody today, and made progress on a poem parody I started on Friday, but they need a little more time to ripen and I need a little more time to sleep. This is one I wrote several months ago and merely polished a little today; I wrote it in about twenty minutes to post on Facebook, after commenting that the sun went down while I was in a bookshop. It was the shortest day of the year, and I was in Stockholm airport, but bookshops can have that effect even under more usual circumstances. I have to be careful ‘polishing’ things I wrote too long ago; I almost rubbed off part of the streak of mid-line ‘un’ rhymes that I’d forgotten I put there. Now I see them and I’m impressed with myself.

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