My soul searches you,

I fly further and further --


and I do not land.

i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
   of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
   of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
   and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives

i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
   to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
genius
   nonsense
      or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
which

i want to bash ur skull in and rip out parts of ur brain to to understand your thoughts.