Goodmorning.
somebody, anybody, (busybody)
Draw a chalk lie about my fallen
magnificence,
My arching piss-spurt of purpose,
My mama. Arching.
Above this = a poem of whimsical
observance.
Below this = a poem of whimsical
observance.
Inside this = a poem of whim only for
obervance's sake.
I have an poem of emotion and rhyming
and "infinity"
Hidden in my sleeve,
Scared to spring before editor Jasper's
"best" worst selections.
Where flowers and herpied ball-slings
share the same silence.
Where light-speed over takes stare-speed.
Where imperator rhymes with sixty-six
syllables and more.
This is me: leaning against a giant's toe
that is often incerted into his dwarf wife's
vagin-ra.
Leaning against more than can endow in my
wife, who is:
Whimsical observance. This is not I.
Goodnight.