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

swells.

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