This is the first one.
A Sort of a Song (William Carlos Williams)
Let the snake wait under
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
-- through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
And here is me, going for baroque:
Lee Tater, the snake-tattooed waiter
at the chrome-plated diner under the bridge,
smokes tons of skunk weed. And his writing
(though it be ostensibly of words) comes slow.
Dude is neither quick nor none too sharp.
"OK, striped grilled kewpies, a quiche of water,
and a bunless tiger burger, got it. You want
fried seeps with that, little lady?" He's so
megacute though, raking his pencil over
the pad, I don't correct him. "Please. Nested
in compost," I add, nodding vigorously. Eek!
No idea what buttered sufferings I'll receive to eat!
I'll not ventriloquize what happens next. Saffron
scents begin wafting from the green-tiled kitchen
orgasmically as sunspots. When my plate arrives,
piled with incomprehensibles, all I can mutter is,
This is pretty difficult! I got a little caught up in my story here and don't think this is baroque enough. Perhaps I'll improve with more practice.