Why poetry readings reeeally bug me. Part II.

As I was saying, they quickly thrash out who'll carpool with whom and head over to the nearest Chinese restaurant, packed together as tightly as rice in a stuffed grape leaf in their vehicle, as though a giant is about to pick up the outsized, "artistically" graffitied van and take a bite. They soon reach the Chinese restaurant and order as much Dim Sum as they think they can stomach. The group decides to read another poem while they wait at their giant, lotus-flowered table surrounded by bamboo screens. The poem is neither morbid nor heartfelt, neither emotional nor deep. The poem is as such:

"If you go to the park

On a Saturday eve

The stars look so small

They could fit through a sieve. 

If you had a telescope

Of old worn bronze

You could look for the sun

As soon as it dawns

However, if you look through your 'scope

At the sun as it dawns

YOUR EYES WILL SHRIVEL UP, DRIBBLE BODILY FLUID ALL OVER YOUR FACE AND FALL OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND YOU WILL DIE A HORRIBLE PROLONGED GORE-RIDDEN DEATH"

Now the writing quality of theses poems has improved, though the last bit may, ah, need some, *ahem*, revisions. Extensive revisions. Anyways, the previous author is shoved to the side. The entire group converges on this new literary prodigy with a hunger for knowledge only comparable to cannibals, zombies, or shrieking, brainwashed, preposterous concert fans. The group is about to torture the perplexed author for every single one of his short story plotlines and witty rhymes when the Dim Sum arrives! The group quickly hides away their clicky pens and extensive stacks of post-its, (weapons of choice), until the unnerved waiter quickly deposits his load of soy sauce smothered rice noodles and dumplings. Then they whip them back out and lean forward, each poised over their own plate of eastern pabulum, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. Nothing seems to happen for the longest time. Not a single bite is eaten. Then a poet's eyes flash open and his mouth seems to move all of its own: 

"Enter the extensive realm of my creative complexes,

Penrose tile, multifarious Lemoine hexes,

Superimposed hypotheses, interdependable but nevertheless,

Talk to me while I'm thinking and I'll break your mesenteric plexus"

The poet in question stops short and looks down at his mouth, astonished. The rest of the group is likewise befuddled, every member completely flabbergasted that such a thing could come out of the mouth of a consort. They had only heard of rap, only caught rumors of it's reputation spoken in hushed tones. They had only speculated as to what the hip-hop crusade entailed. They now drew back, alarmed.

But this didn't seem to be mindless bragging about fictitious accomplishments and seventh wives. This couldn't be the rap of which they had descried. No, this was most definitely a subdivision. This was Nerdcore.

It is past my bedtime.

I bid thee a good night, dear reader.