Boorish words fall out of my mind across a page so white.
Is this what great poets accomplish, a drivel of the mind, a sludge that distends from me to you?
No, this is emotion wonderland, a through the rabbit hole tumble to the topsy turvy world of Ben.
There is no great poet; only man, no contemporary English genius in hiding within I; only me.
A curvy frame belies an interest in the obvious.
You’re distracted by the pretty girl, and her enormous ******* hang in your vision.
Maybe there is nothing beyond her *******; a seemingly infinite reality is etched on her soft flesh.  
A reality of many options, luminous statues roped off to the touch.
The bent frames of a social enterprise, thousands of years of thought piled in a heap, reach for the stars!  
What happens to the old ideas?
Where do my metaphors go to die?
I hope it’s not my imagination, littered with already lost initiative, now running from my searching eye.