Poet Authority Poem Terminal

He became tangled in the wires.

'Where's Frank?'

Is the sort of question friends might have asked.

Inspected the new village's notice board for things to do in the area.

Opted to join the local swingers club,

Because that's all the village had going on, really.

Mallory took along one of her famous pies.

And got repaid in kind.

Kevin watched on,

Looking pretty glum about the whole event.

A couple of bags of jelly babies for dessert.

And vanished for another year.

Not just any funicular,

An Italian one.

It seemed mostly like tourists in here,

So I wasn't getting many Italian vibes from it.

I gazed out the window at the Italian scenery.

Imagined the Italians below,

Doing their Italian things.

Ludwig's week had gone quite poorly.

Calamitous might be a good word for it.

He procured an eraser from WHSmith and set about removing those days from his calendar.

At least then no one else would remember what happened there.

Yet another failure.

This plant found a home beside his bed,

And from then on Fernando would often bring gifts for it.

Like little ornaments to stand in the dirt,

Or possibly a hat if he thought that would be amusing.

His wife looked on enviously.

From the sleeper's drool.

Awakes in fright,

Of what occurred overnight.

Sheets fresh and unsoiled,

Now rest spoiled.

I log in to Domino's.

Go all in with the Italian options,

And await my delivery.

Knock, knock goes the door,

And knock once more.

The entrance to my home peeled back,

I squeeze a 'molto bene!' through my frowning lips.

Accept the concoction the driver offers in return,

And stagger forlornly to my bed.

Despite no requests for the room to be cleaned.

This was a disaster!

Bertrude began composing an apology,

Noting she would have never left underwear on the floor if she'd have known,

Asking what she could do to make up for what had happened.

She stuck this letter to her hotel door,

And cried herself to sleep.

Luigi,

A master of the gondola,

Was furious.

Someone had double parked a non-dola.

The inconvenient canals of Venice,

Becoming even more so.

He rammed into this vile contraption,

Clambered over some tourists,

And boarded the unsightly vessel.

Released the moorings,

And set it free down stream (I think).

As he passed by he shouted incomprehensible abuse into the air (because it was Italian)

And threw in a note informing the owner they'd disgraced their family.

I looked at my chips.

I looked at the vinegar.

I couldn't believe this.

This isn't what I wanted.

Which is also called Burger King.

I barged in demanding pizza,

And answers as to why everything else closes so early.

In return I was offered a sad little burger,

And regret.

Gelato in hand,

Surrounded by Verona.

Standing in Venice,

And you're not going to believe this,

But the canals were falling from the sky.

Like any half decent tourist trundled on.

In an attempt to absorb some of their iconic architecture,

I gave looking up a shot,

Almost drowning in the process.

Eventually I gave up and went to eat some traditional Venetian dumplings,

And checked when the next train out of this puddle was departing.

I hauled my luggage through the streets of some Italian city.

Plopped myself down at a table and insisted the guys in the restaurant replace the tablecloth with pizza,

And the placemats with pizza,

And my plate with pizza,

And then put a pizza on that for me to eat.

Finally, things started to feel authentic