News emerged yesterday lunchtime of a shocking situation where a poem had become lodged in the head of a luckless girl at a café in Thornton’s Arcade. Bystanders attempted to move her, but in the assessment of the first responder, the line breaks weren’t essential to the structure, so the on-site surgeon was called for, and arrived within the hour.
The golden thread had become entangled around the young poet’s pineal gland, leaving her in a very precarious position. After dealing with this, the surgeon then had an arduous eight hour task in disentangling the entire sea from the unfortunate poet’s frontal cortex.
We caught the surgeon on her way out of the theatre: “I am glad for my intensive specialist training in the matter, without which I am sure I wouldn’t have noticed that the protective tissue around the brain was being used as a metaphor for sleep”
I talked to a bystander on the scene. “It’s obvious people these days just don’t know how to use metaphors” they said. “In my day something like this never could have happened. That’s what rhyme was for! Poets these days think they can do without it, but look what happens! Just think, it could have been worse, it could have been a prose poem! I worry for the children”
In an attempt to understand the case more, I wrote this poem, which I am now trapped inside. Please send help