This is a piece about nothing at all.
It’s not about llamas or people called Paul.
It’s not about flotsam, or fishsticks, or owls;
it’s not about liquorice, lobsters or towels.
This poem, I tell you, is merely a void.
To search for a meaning would make you annoyed.
It’s not about clowns doing backflips in Chad;
it’s not about monsters who look like your dad.
It’s not about jelly, or bottoms, or squid,
or broccoli, banjos, Macau or Madrid.
It’s not about pineapples pinned to a wall –
See, this is a piece about nothing at all.
Joshua Seigal