inner critic

He used to take his lectures with a cigarette and a blindfold. Can you publish a single sentence? Didn’t work for James won’t work for me choclate sorbet sunday in the pipe playing old mexican sweat from an old tube amp and how’s that for a sonnet? Close but no dice this ain’t horse shoes and you ain’t no hand gernade ten stone gained while im ten stones lost stoned in the gutter wasn’t me on mr ferris’s window grate too bad no one likes the blues anymore and the inner critic keeps chewing away through the poems like I’d left them for the rats real sick son of a to dissolve one’s own work never made sense didn’t have to makes sense and then you name it god the names the fonts it’s the title of a Piece after all too much noise interferance bad baggage send it out its not mine anymore and so the poems go