Pillowed-paper, my intimate Comfort,
for a Heavy Head as large as a large
honey-Dew melon of fragrant Flesh,
Essence of heaven, my Teacher once paused
to contemplate my Durability
for dramatic Verses. Oh boy, was he
Wrong, poor Dude! Though I'd hoped to avoid you,
Heart of a Poet, I nursed you on Milked
SorrowsworroS of Inhumane Treatment.
Prisons of thought, objectification...
The ruses have multiplied themselves, Clones.
Whereas the Muses compose by Rhythms
embossed with the Inkstains by these Letters.
No comments:
Post a Comment