More recent causes be
to blame; resting was not
as easy as resisting. A cold,
cooled viper soiled fangs,
once so seemingly beautiful
objection too.  Of dangerous,
ordinary.  "Ists, ists, ists,...."
continually, stomach, belly,
hand, foot, neck, brain, every
temporal sought try, emnity.  
The 5th, fours, poets counting
3 beats and 2 bars,... ONE Langston, Kerouac,
Thurston, any true scientologist.  "Ists."
The trite moekein bird song had treated,
and debt was emnity.

not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist

humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism  
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist

d o   you kno w  e ver yth  i ng  ?

ha ve  y  ou   c ons ider ed

th a t   GOD
m ay be  o ne  of th e  t h ings
o
y u  

**D O  NO T   KN  O    W  ???