throughout the day,
most oft at night,
start to say,
stop short,
painful for crying out loud thoughts,
shoutouts to any passing god

things that need to the air
be exposed,
but not to ears that
well, what could they say...

so stutter-stop
the bottling inside,
periodic fizz escaping,
and even poetry
cannot help
for it does over and over again,
end up as crumpled papers,
litter of the head,
halves, this's and that's,
even this one dies here and now*

~~~~~~~

irony delicious,
that litter sounds so literary,
so added débris,
lest my mangy constructions
manage to confuse you

the litter in question,
is your host's hors d'oeuvre
nibbles of works,
half-started, half-finished,
like rooms to let,
that come only half-furnished,
not a single morsel worthy
serving up,
all half-satisfactory

poems, of course...

the wrong write ***** clogged,
resting in peace,
Works In Progress (WIP)
unlike the poet,
who's just plain whipped

un-crumpled awaiting
an episodic finale,
if ever they should be televised,
they are needy for cumberbitches,

a birth or death certificate
sore lacking

pick up put down
new titles pop,
essays in need of love,
naught fruited, dead pits,
hanging on the tree till
gravity takes them prisoner

on and on for weeks
the side stitch does not
disappear, but does grow
aching familiar

perhaps the topic offends
you the most,
cloying, suffocating
self-pity
of your own hands
around your neck wrapped...