An exquisite corpse

is what the Wednesday night workshoppers quickly realized we'd be doing when the only person who had something to workshop was me. (BOOYAH!)

And my corpse turned out like this:

The poet who killed the poem

stalked it first – waited in the bushes
like a feral cat – hungry, cold, waited
until it crossed the line of sight, on instinct
falling amongst dreams into the gutter
like the fat from a George Foreman grill, it congeals into a dirty white pool
and like some distorted phoenix it rises from the puddle
before it had the chance to fully drown.

Thanks Andy Chris Sharon Tim Emari and Mike - I'm sure this one is gonna get me the book deal!