Middle of the Road

I drink poetry and excrete it in my imagination to the taste of soup, inspiration in my gutter of sky, the farces run the barn of wood crawling fingers, digging deep into the fury velvet twilight map the location Entertainer decapitate loyal crew to the kingdom of kingpin round morning blessing brother meek of submerged answers never to be repeated to the third person singular, but lukewarm of appetite detached morning mum. Line of angry dull pin the sharp hap to the loot of moon pointing straightforward to the faded Antilles, Western Indies scruffs of limitless anchor of my days to that thwart of subliminal good to go. Smiling moon to the center of the sky peep into my prison of imagination, padlock to the gallows mistake shaking the dignity of arrow to the cloak the tempest banana republic to repugnant whistle sound The kilos of rhythms backed up my pant of pain to till sunshine yet to blame the belated from the bereave lure to deputizes the post of ray to tray of mishaps, the din of lion claws of fun rub truth leaning side by side sip the peg of life to the smile of hyperbole. The sharp thoughts quick under my pillow from voices of an Island crying to trembling hawk jog of bug nails sound decontrol of hail night and the root of thief.