You’re tightrope-Jelly...
full of beans on a string.
Strapped to molasses
like a garden hose-
to a Roman aqueduct.
Clogged with hollows
and a perfect
expiation...

charming the blood
out of a Blarney Kidney
where a Stone donkey
kicked Thee.

your stars are without proof.
but they got you for a song.
horseless stables unstable now
for the lack of your glad feet
upon the glunk of your casual
flaws.

I assume that you assume
and deliver clips of entirety.
with shards of bespoke Myth-
and cavitations that swell
the heady blink of a lunacy-
You could Kiss for
no reason.

the width of a sliver of peace
is the inverse of all Overtures!
plucky tinkers. affix fobs
to fluorescent apertures…
as to a chain of keys
to a chain of unbearable doors
and all your very much
Loveliness.

Who Is You Are?
I may ask your Self.
But the Echo in Here
Keeps asking me
“Who Am I?”