Straight soaring
Bust like a boring tumbledore
And sarcophagus my Elsinore
Take from the hat that’s passed around
And shout when you turn the music down.
The best you got is tent cent hopscotch
The best you got is dosage dim
The way you move is sluggish solely
The things you move are wonk.
Curvy polylythic hectogram.
Proprioceptive sense.
Fractal path asscrack mentality.
Pathos personality who doesn’t have one?
The spite rhythm of this tight branding iron line
Is tracery of leaves of temple;
Textual massage
Is the kama sutra of our times.
Why don’t you whine a bit more?
I can’t hold your hand when my glove’s on fire.
I can’t sift through landfills of barbed-wire.
Put your dolly back in the parka.
Maybe if there were a cymbal
Accompanying your plaint
I would be able to solo over it
And wouldn’t have to
paint
The living room
This weekend.
