frail people don't write frail verse,
not these bastions
  of ideal love, always with them,
this ideal love...
      my love is such and such...
my love is so and so...
          frail people don't write frail verse,
or rather, rigid, schoolyard
verse,
              rubrics of techniques
and the rest of the gob'*****
acolade...
                  frail people don't write
frail verse...
     I see them already...
with frail people
            there are only two standards:
1. write in cipher...
    or
2. write with honesty...
                   sometimes 1.,
mostly 2.,
       its Saturday an all I have
is a bottle of ***** and a candle for
company... somehow I feel...
   sine pathos: apathy...
   warm gut and less Herbert Herbert
fever...
         unnerving the unpolished
by a man's touch milk bones and
pristine thighs in spring's attire...
       nothing of the mandible whorish...
sooner my eye than a sugar daddy
tirade...
               by 2. I mean...
not a scratch of autobiographical
sketching, everything church-going
Sunday best, pristine... ideal...
like flowers in a garden not, plucked,
nor teased by heavy rain,
or scorthed by a hunchback sun
in June's noon...
            frail people don't
write frail verse,
            plenty for the mob to speak
of frail, namely in cliché
of crocodile tears...
            but frail people
never write frail verse...
         in cipher or in nudism...
    in cipher or in honesty...
notably?
   I never thought I'd find
a substitute for mead...
funnily enough I have...
    a beer from the jabłonowo
brewery...
      the axis:
a. piwo na miodzie gryczanym
b. beer on buckwheat honey
c. bier auf buchweizenhonig...