From the womb of my dark insane in my cups of the berries stain keeping my porridge hot beneath a shroud of a vintage doubloon shadowed by a delirious moon spiraling in this cold earth profound before my soul touched the ground with a withering wooden spoon
Show me the dust and I will fill the void of your loneliness. But don't sweep it into a silent butler. Death is more than my photograph on the wall, hanging by a nail. But my voice will never rust or fade to dark. As long as my ghost remains in monochrome. Ghosts never die. They just live in cupboards like old chipped memories, sleeping on saucers. Next to a box of green tea.
Rising above a whimsical blemish through the looking glass and rhymes hot sweet the laudanum of my farcical of the haute bourgeoisie in the dark with a pocketful of posies and a hint of Black Opium's caffeine with hoi polloi
You're too Young for Redemption and I'm too Old to Give a Shit
Redemption takes a lot of energy Time better spent on other matters of state Perhaps I could invoke the redemption clause for early pandemic actions Like hoarding Charmin toilet paper ( Soft ) Maybe I iced out someone on that But the guy online charged me triple So fuck redemption there Or the 5 cartons of disinfectant wipes I scored I did send some to a friend upstate So no redemption needed there either
Now that I think of it Redemption makes good copy when writing poems I've written tons of them Anything I was...