The Latest Thing

Amid the cacophony and clamour
surrounding the latest thing,
I prefer iconoclasm and incongruity:
Prokofiev on a penny-whistle
or Beethoven on a barrel-organ.

You might say my writing
lacks teeth, at least the pointed
kind.

As much as mythical-cute monsters
with human lovers abound,
some long for metaphor and metaphysics,
aperçu-upturned apple-carts
or brain-food in a book cover.

You might say such novels
won't sell: I say I don't much
mind.