I don’t have time to count these syllables
craft and shift words like hairs on a bald scalp,
wait for a fickle muse to share the buzz,
& tickle me back when I am past her help.
Refuse crude allusion through stolen fruit;
the works of lifeless best left to decay,
and weed the useless words out by the root-
the parrotry dry pedants use for play.
Instead, we build up beauty from the bone
and viscus. Haul false hauteur to the ground,
enthusiastic, energy un-honed,
draught our laughs until we have half-drowned.
Around the ways I’ll waste my days with you -
a solipsistic solecism, so untrue.
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