...with your beer-laden breath.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXL)


If owly-eyed is cute, then hug me hence.
But all I've got in suitors are in pale
Excuse, erm, rogues; these steal my kisses, frail
As aught retort, "you asked for it!" What thence?
Where did the fellows I knew for intents
Back in my youth go?  Why but scoundrels' scale
Of int'rest now?!  Why pray for love t'avail,
And find the LORD's forgotten me? oh whence?
Meet guys online???!  Yes, laugh so hard that your
Sides ache, and they are wicked like whom to
My face think having *** the fourth date'd cure
Our young relationship.  What shall I do?!
I pray, and rot away.  O LORD, why's poor
I ask for fruit, for children?  Hear me too?

29Nov18b

people have written about everything,
nothing has been left to be found.
I've tried to find what wasn't leftover,
but it's gone.

there's been poet's and scribes,
prophets and writs;
but they're gone,
for now.
until another one reincarnates.
again.

love is nothing new to us.
and war never changes too.
but what we write is just rhetoric,
maybe that is too.

what's written makes no sense.
but there's no more writing to be found.
weirdly how I'm writing,
what should've seemed so profound.

confessional poets,           borrowing
from the  Catholic  sacrament
of confession, unburden  themselves
of their most twisted,
  hidden          desires;
Beat poets grab  their
      words          wherever
they find themselves,                       thus      
informed          &          realizing that all                      words
are *******; everyone is lying;  
mankind's most brilliant
geniuses     are idiots;
Mozart, Michelangelo, Da Vinci,
                        Enstein,
Dylan & Zuckerberg;
Jesus Christ; not one
          of them knew enough to    
come in out of the                 rain;