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haha, really, I drink too much.
Folder:
Bad poetry there are no poems to cool coffee cups
nor any intrepid listener
there will never be documents.
I don't know what to do with this messy noise
the soul makes, constantly, like a
spinning fan, but would you prefer
a simple god? In judgement I offer
mondegreen
opulent
redolent
the wherewithal of untoward dicks
entering the discussion
I never asked to have with all the women.
This soul and cock
are so many math problems
there is no poetry in the way a skirt billows
in July. The
tintinnabulation of all the experts on
my bones and my sinew
it's like trying to stroke a stream of water
or pet a spinning blade.
