If Anything Writing Poetry Has Made Me Less Articulate Than I Was Before

Hello. I've written a thing which I'd like to share. No, I've no idea what it means either. You read it and then you can tell me. It goes thusly:

If Anything Writing Poetry Has Made Me Less Articulate Than I Was Before

Let's get drunk

On a weekday night.

Very slightly drunker than we ought to,

So the world goes shiny at the edges.

Let's listen to poetry,

And pretend we're paying attention,

Instead looking across the room at each other.

And let's pretend we're listening to music,

Because I'm told that would mean we're having fun,

Rather than overthinking things.

Apparently those two terms are not synonymous.

I know, right? It surprised me when I found out.

Let's pretend we're listening to Beethoven,

Because that means we can pretend we're suave and cultured.

Some intelligent people do in fact genuinely listen to Beethoven,

And so we might

Therefore

Be intelligent.

QED.

Intelligent people have good ideas

And know how to explain them to others.

Let's listen to Beethoven's sixth symphony.

Relatively few people know how that goes,

So they'll be too busy

Pretending to be as cultured as you and me

To eavesdrop on our conversation.

Let's listen to the second movement

Of Beethoven's sixth symphony,

Because even fewer people will recognise that one.

Of those,

A percentage

Won't be able to say quite what a movement is..

And then I can grin,

And hope,

Fervently, that no one asks me to explain.

I think the real joy of the second movement of the sixth

Is that, although it's sufficiently andante molto mosso

To give us a pleasant soundtrack,

It's not sufficiently so

To distract us from our purpose here.

Because between googling the music just now

And when I sit down to write this poem

Neither of us will remember

What the phrase actually means.

We'll have done too much by then.

Let's write poems that we have no idea how to finish.

Let's think of things we have no idea how to start,

Rehearse them and perform them

Underground

Somewhere in East London.

Let's make eye contact

Across a room crowded with people still pretending to listen.

Let's

Make

Eye

Contact

With so many people that no one can be really sure if poem is even about anyone in particular.

Let's hope she knows it's about her.

Let's hope she is brave enough to do something braver than this about this.

Let's - 

Sorry, that came out weird.
I had the start of the thought
And forgot where I was going with it.
Forget I said anything.

Hope you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward