We Danced

I penned a couplet for you today. Rather, a quill manipulated my hand and scrawled mendacity. The misanthrope's who read the ode applauded with flippers on. Such insight. Such depth. Mussolini meets Monet and the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts. Call me a scribe and I murder myself. Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm. I purposely dislocated my arm today. Rather, your tongue severed bone and flesh was torn from my shoulder; a needed braised boomerang to stimulate my poetic prowess. Such clarity. Such wisdom. Lenin leads Lichtenstein and the Lucifer Lindy is launched. Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers. Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile. A jellyfish swam through my veins today. Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant triggered a fabricated Tanka. Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone - more comedic when we cackle together. Such simplicity. Such compassion. Bundy befriends Berchtold and the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins. Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection. Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted. I solemnly yearn to expire today. Rather, a fool fires in a fury and a mannequin lies in his casket. The curse you've driven towards me - a combination menu when a lone Woolf inconspicously devours a battered Browning. Such diversity. Such nothingness. Stalin seduces Seurat and the Satanic Samba softly swoons. Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection. Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.