Perhapsingly on Sunday If the bleak-end hacked for blood I could take a spin in the old gorevette Down to Blighton where the vibe is crude, Where April rolls the coolest blunts Dreading lilacs and their smoky crud Of wishfulness. Beyond this extended ketaphor Only reason spoils the mood. Having none and wanting more - A conceit started out so spicely, but finished far from good. Oh well, I guess. The horror I suppose. The horror.
Tried to write a nonsense poem. Failed. Ended up writing a nonsense poem about failing to write a nonsense poem. Not sure if it holds together. Would love feedback on whether it achieves its aim. What does anybody think?