The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction. So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor, I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though. I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.
I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'. I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares. My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square. The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void, Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be". That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.
I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus: Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism. They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind. I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.
I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer. He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may. I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces; Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."