Monday, April 2, 2007

What is this Beautiful Communication of Metrical Form?

Ah, poetry! Formidable phrases formed with affectionate infallibility. They grasp the inner organs, gently caressing their mucus membranes with rhythmic rhyme and rhetorical prose.

Is it unusual for a man of science, a genius geneticist such as myself, to be captivated by such literary art? Or is poetry merely an extension of the mind itself?

And what is it that is the catalyst for my new found poetic appreciation? Could it be the Poetry Contest on the Burnt Toast Diner blog? Could it be my current predicament finds myself needing to express the essence of my soul? Or is poetry inherent in all intellectual endeavors and is merely an appropriate byproduct of my pretentious intelligence?

Nonetheless, I am currently feeling poetic. It is my desire to speak out with figurative allegory. Unfortunately, it is destiny's cruel game to provide me with this desire and yet deprive me of an audience to which I may speak. I am like a dejected silkworm, unable to manufacture my treasured wares.

And yet when we find ourselves lacking the prerequisites to our goals, do we merely give up? Or do we refuse to be up-givers and continue on in the pursuit of happiness, despite the lamentable odds against attainment of said goal?

If the great European Beaver can build a dam without multiple trips to Home Depot, then surely I can achieve my goals, for I am far superior to the damnable rodent. Like the Popillia japonica, or Japanese dung beetle, I must make use of all resources available to me, even if said resources are excrement.

"Peter," I exhorted to my beleaguered companion, "Perhaps you would be interested in listening to some poetry?"

"Death...pain...I do not care," he caroled, "For what good is life without great hair?"

"Excuse me," I crooned. "It seems you misunderstood my request. I do not wish for you to express your angst to me. I have angst which needs expressing currently and you must listen, not speak!"

"Listen. Hear. Speak. Mourn. I am Peter."

"Yes, well, here it goes...
Roses are crimson
Violets are lavender...
Don Corleone
Could have been a contender."

"Mobster. Gun. Shoot. Dead.
Peter. Fun. Gone. Bread."

It was clear to me this would become a battle of poetic wits. And though I may be stuck to a ceiling, I am still quite the rhetorical warrior.

"Thinking of you speeds my basal metabolic rate,
And I am catapulted into a wondrous psychological state,
Is this destiny? Is it coincidence? Or is it fate?"

"You are cold. The flower dies.
I wrap my heart in your cold lies."

"Is death the end?
The final frontier?
The ultimate horizon
On this celestial sphere?
Do we die a little more
With each passing year?
Perhaps I can stop it
For I'm a bioengineer."

"Blood drips on the empty house,
Infecting my lonely heart,
Like obtaining the Black Plague from a mouse,
My body is no more. I'm falling apart."

It seems we must turn to the figments of this cyber-imagination to settle this debacle! At the conclusion of the Burnt Toast poetry contest, I implore you to cast your ballot for the great Indra of poetry, the Ganesha of rhetorical imagery, the Super Mario of figurative prose...Mohinder Suresh!


Peter said...

My poetry is like, totally more beautiful than yours.

infatuation_junkie said...

i love your blog. it just has so much... meaning, to it. lol

civilian said...

The poetic Peter angst is reminiscent of Hamlet.

P.S. I am deeply fascinated by your use of literary jargon.