Poetica

Hey! Look at me, I'm a Poem! my words rhyme with my tongue with lips summoning secret séance scribblings from upper palate delights while my teeth scalpel saturnine ecstasies from mammock reservoirs of poor pouring pores like promethean cantation preferences, quickly bypassing undisturbed milieus of voluble blatherskite pre-recognized by M—-ass appeal of soul-less, regressive expression. Rather look to creating poetic serenity. Dig deep, ride low, let go--so words flow from that undiscovered, untapped antisocial well spring of predictive, b-o-r-i-n-g, literary ire. Release yourself from that bereft homemade fixfax by growing a vocabulary worthy of sensation. Scrawl from a freak show POV drink the gypsy nectar of lifes in lived, love languished tirades left, right that free you from your alphabetic coma dungeon--a passive nulled nodule sadly furnished brain cell--full of nonsense letters-keeping you yonder linked to your current, obsequious conformity evaluating form, content, rules, structure--all alien to beautiful thoughts on self paper, signedsealed, post delivered to your awaiting tombstone epitaph, with cool comprehension that we as poets suffer a left induced domesticated social dysplasia of the write hand. Bewareness.