What a shame! Even (mouth thick with honey) the poetry, tarr'd n feathered, pimped out, holstered to the inside thigh - Promiscuity as a promise, the clouds fil and zzz leet ::: sleep, sleet. Only if I'm paid. Bruise shaped acorn on my shoulder, I hide out in my car, in the cold. Hello solder, hand me a high 5! And it turns into 7, which turns into 9, which turns into night. There is no shame in words, in swallowing tiny torches and blacking out ochre eyes - say, sleepy head - If anything this [poem] is a fragment of some whole puzzle-u, a wannabe winsome trove of squiggly lines.