Speak in rimed curves; 2 much 2day, cuvée, my mind
slurred; she, like a domesticated, purred; preferred the old
world approach; for me, no coach; in my own boat, a lone
coat, like mutated amphibians in a moat, hungry for
epidermis, my letters word this, rather pragmatically.
So what am I, one to just vocalize? Probably, my second chapter
should have been third; I’m a theory nerd– weary, absurd.
Out of space, my cloud is based in something just to the
left of fiction, with postmodern anti-structuralist
vision. Another incision, and why should a writer
listen? Being responsible, just acceptance of convivial
prison. Not for me, I’d rather stay in song, delay the long;
a full tray of wrong– I’m okay, just bombed. Evaluatively
oblong. And in the woods, I can only hear good. No
proposed would, could. Solitude, the finest neighborhood.
Self-induced spell, well-to-do sell. Voluntarily fell in biblical