deepundergroundpoetry.com

Down From Thee Tower, A Cry of Syllogistic Troot'A'musement[s]
all men is mortal
I is a'men
quantifying mo'tality
in a littleroom
in pairadice, just
back from the Babbtist Gold
Tower pent
house privy suite where
d'pleasures of readin Balzac
was all thee
rage,(at leastwise betwixt
my twoEyes), yet an
other exer cize in greeting onslaughts of absur[d]
ditty
wit open alms,[as-if some
prophit would fckn grow from ~it~]
'More' is thee marrier come to conjoin us for holes
of matrimoney like'like justalike
them suburpan sump-holes of fascinatin
size & dubious function
reflected, some-how, by my deteriorating type
writ
in g
s'kills, for which I can
lay blame neither to god nor
brother
nor the
nymph
[ there-to-once]
named as
my protector,
my celebrant,
my My'o'My
mythologist
tellin phantasmic tales of the
Truth-of-My-X'istence
to audiences who'd ne'er dare to listen,
let alone 'hear'
aye! eye can cry, I can quake, I can put some
momma'poppa's ashen grey ashes in
this'ere
baggie'o Shake'n'Bake------
thee
more witnesses eye can gather,
thee
more credibility eye could hope to destroy.
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