I do not have the words to use; well, I do –
They sting in sight of promises
To "do it right" –
And writing, as I do,
Unfurling of my world and its platinum
Irrationality and moods;
So usual in drooping, toothless musing
That I, rude, amuse myself in losing,
With live wire flights
To suspects of undressed, salacious doomings.
A skewing of the sewers,
Left maneuvering;
I hoover up the vacuous detractors
And their blooming into flowers
An hour left attentive
Of the sour, dour packaging,
Bereft of betterment in caught
Contrivances,
My eyes that sigh to lies I bent,
And broke the overtones to know
What I have left.
I sent my message, meant to catch a beast;
I feel in, my reaching, what it seems to mean.
I steel all my soldiering, and bloat;
My groans engorged with oratory
In raucous roaring to this test of old.
And better yet;
And better yet,
I vet the callus calling with the marbles
In this march
That makes my rest.
I do not have the stomach to forget,
And lest I mention mad menageries
And pious, pie hole packed obscenities,
I dip my toes into the lonely lapping
At the puddles that my puzzles
Mark as wet.
Forgive me all my signs, and sighing,
I die, for what it's worth,
Not to deny, but just
To see you –
Reach you –
Once again, I'm in your debt.
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