I want to write a cracked egg poem with no yolk.
No, I want to write a jumbo egg poem with two yolks.
Toothpaste running down my freshly shaven chin
I divide my life into embryos of employment
and their locations, dozens of eras
dozens of yolks and the result
is financial and white. Divide
and continue, there is always more
to rerun and review. I don't need
to see the end of this show
the part where
like I said
how would you like your eggs?
The bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, the first
half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and
pleasant, the second half still balmy and quite pleasant for those who
hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice
for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time
during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it
but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know.
-- Winning sentence, 1986 Bulwer-Lytton bad fiction contest.
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