Sunday, February 12, 2012

Fragmentia

I’m not your teapot
No whistle pause, or
lacy synecdoche
in your sweet spot.
That dangling thing;
junk (modified)
on the backs; of cheap believers
in the mouths; of silly proselytes.
Why the cross-hatchling?
Why the straight and narrow?
I ain't on your chain
of glitter anaphorics
with charming cataphorics
lost exophoric trinkets,
and stolen ellipsis shine
on...on...on...
sweet liar! That license is gold-
on a hot "clasp" of trite
your binary opus falls flat.
Sleazy hyphens on the [floor]
subjugation sister
gerunds smell of pretrichor
predication mister?
Round two, solder lingers
rolling in sheets of have-to’s
Mustn’t’s; or-elsing the beastmaster dry
Oh, lovely momma ingénue!
Your feelers don’t ride my avenue.
My full stops. and critter curls,
Skip she, bow she, curtsy to play
Lock it down: Sew it tight:
round the spyglass of-
turnable phrase.
Color but (crafty) white noise
buzzer shaming proper verse-
a palindrome, inside herself
oh, dainty pen girl, can't you see?
Your way forward
is my way back. 
Piquant nosh on cunt-flavored sin
where all rules melt on lines of men
The words, your prose
chew your cud; I'll wait.
Red shifter/dreamer/thief
Yes.  My chaste dot apostle-
your world dies
when you shut your eyes
but mine has just (begun)

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