If #poetry is #painting with words, how vivid should the colours be, and should the brushstrokes show?

This question has always been somewhat of a puzzle. Personally I have always been  a slave master with  words. No, that is not the right phrase, as anyone with a passing knowledge of slavery knows that the moral objection comes not from human bondage, but the economic wastage of labour, Therefore my words are not slaves, they are more like cubicle contractors, always online and available, perpetually networking.

Why use one word, when the same word can have three meanings? Do three jobs if you will.

The whores shoe above the door
was lucky for him but not for her,
wet, limp, stocking home,
slanket snug, a bite of flake.

Bolly pink, to light the way,
roses red, candy, grasps the stay
held up for atom blasted dish,
cellophane, well sauced neck.

Their cells re-connect: with coloured fangs,
nice chicken, pings, as love songs
carry plates to knees,
Ikea rug, rice drops fly.

Unshooed haw frost spores the door.
Yays to the right, into her
life of Hartley's jam, headland spread,
diet days, two bars on.

There you have it.

A poem inspired by Sir John Betjamin, and standing behind a man at the check out self consciously buying champagne and roses.

A simple tale of love gone awry, apology offered, and accepted. That revolves around the word 'grasps'.

At which point I shall burn my bra, don a boiler suit and ask you to hear me roar.

Why is it that a woman who 'gives herself' to a man is a whore?

Ok, I perhaps don't help this misogynist tendency by offering a hostage to fortune in the aural pun of the first line. It doesn't take a great deal to encourage the numpties.

But it is curious.

Cue random picture to decorate the facebooks....