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I Write Wits Psalm Burning Desire...

Why?
To escape livingsocial,
     and negate mine birth
figuratively, knowingly,
     and precariously,
     I nightmarishly perch
teeter tottering atop - dearth
of financial safety net,
 
     where profuse
     hemorrhaging, viz bankruptcy,
     bloodshot eyes see red behind
     eight ball violently, helplessly
     then effortlessly lurch,
analogous to tight rope walker,
     (envision the Great Wallenda)
     balanced above scalding,

     seething, and volcanic, magmatic, 
     and basaltic  lava spewing,
     qua global sized hearth,
why what pray 
     tell wood seem
     tubby an enormous googling search
bar, a bajillion miles
     into abyss, (Penney's
 
     on the dollar) Wool Worth
investigating resigning self
     tug go deep into the
     bowels of planet Earth,
cruel fate, would temptingly
     find me permanently
     relieved of rectal, legal tender,
     (emotional, and 

     many another) woe
willingly surrendering, pirouetting,
     and cartwheeling self free falling,
     asper in toto
Leonardo DaVinci's
     The Vitruvian Man
     anatomical perfect
     sketch doth show

(absent parachute), while row
tete ting away performing
     Queen like aerial bebop ping
     amidst thermal current status quo
spinning (analogous pro
vocation) to infamous 
     colorful pinwheel lo'
oft appearing on Macbook know

wing mischievous gremlins glow
with delight magnified
     screen no...no...no,
OH, not on external Lenovo...
ARGH more dough
aye haint got to blow,
mine absence invariably,
     sans minimal impact,

(Matthew Scott Harris)
     his present existence,
     would be high jacked
triggering oodles
     of noodles, re: guarding
     China Syndrome, where
     fortune cookie message
     presages annihilation pact,

where yours truly feels
     like...chop suey racked
amid smoldering 
     humungous caldera,
     which generates 
     unstoppable, laudable,
     and irreversible death cab
     for cutie sound track

accompanies in concert
     my plummet from 
     summit on high,
     which would give 
     poor Humpty Dumpty,
     a run for his egg drop
soupy sailing money, 
     thus subsequently

     criss cross Sir Wren door 
     ring me akin
     to quasi smashing pumpkins glop
unless, while streaming
     thru ethereal medium
     (zero AmPeRe) hiphop.
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