Long Rased Poems

The Wright Stuff

"The road to write is paved with good intensives."
— attr. too know won

The mourning it always do come sum-how
where they're voices brake the piece into peaces—
we was all of us promised a wright to no the truth
butt the heir we breathe has went, spent, mined out, beyond the vane/vain gnus
proscribed like a wether we cannot sea—the err of it and yeti.

Running from the lie's the money stayed, still
He, galled, gulled, lead in, shuttered—should of ironed the flood on thin eyes, thin i's
they swept the e-rupture under the rug of the volcano
lent, bent, the routes of it t'all drowned the ceiling every moan and mown
knot one sole voice cud of broke the rein of time it-shelf.

The children play was born into wore there bodies the pour of plague
sum-body never said nothing—the reign felled on the pane/pain like whether
emigrate, immigrate or stay, him and her and them bear/bare the same old hole
they're writes they're breastless rites to exst was pored over the alter
and the sole of it, the soul of it, they burned the maid in the mourning stair.

And now, , we scroll and sprawl and drool through the mourning of taht
sum-how the "famine" is a cantent, the "worn" is a wra, the "wand" is a wrte
end sum-one's always loosing there wright two exist, here, hear, their
too nations, to flags, two many wounds the power they powder the flood they could of ironed
where we're board-stiff wore down, the fowl foul heir of sit, the steal they steel—
the raised cities rased, razed—

interesting, someone didn't run Grammarly,

rite.