They say I spilt good ink.
blood is inky blue, true,
only as long oxygen external
declines to be untroduced
strikes me as toxic ironic,
wherefore a goodly
dim sum of my
"Poetry"
comes from,
the ink in
the bottle,
what spilt,
gotta be
drops of
me sad bad/and you,
an iced tea mixed blueblood
by nobody's definition.
You see.
I
(oh how I dislike that ego vowel)
write of myself
for myself
but lock your gaze on that person
on the right or perhaps left,
in the panting crowd
of you voyeurs,
it
could be me
watching me
Writhe,
oops meant
write
If the tongue his inky pinky red
then you knowing who you
will be voyeuring,
me
ink spillin'
that oxygenized ink
that is writing the rusty
Blues