Vegetarian sandpaper snake,
opaque as a back ache.
Tied into steam whipped air.

Needles and spokes,
rustled and restless,
concrete and wingless.

Following a Papel sideshow travelling into town
to form a claim of no coherent ambivalence.
With most moist avuncular symmetric denial.

Reclaiming such winkled names in claws.
Reptile claws of rainbow rhythm or
mindless meter.

Needles and spokes,
rustled and restless,
concrete and wingless.

Turning smile as screws eyes are bolts.
Locked out and locked in.

Sometimes, I think
Thinking is weird.
What do you think?

This poem is about itself
How did it become in the first place
Oh, it just did I guess.

It’s not deep
It’s just about……
Itself
It’s not even that good
Ummmmmm….
What else can it say about itself?

It’s written in English.
That’s a fact
It’s a very factual poem
And it knows it
It knows it very well

There’s not very many big word in it
As far as it knows
It’s still pretty curious as to how it came to be
So…..let’s think about it together

So…
If this poem is only referencing itself
And we know it is by definition
Then, how could it have referenced itself in the first place?
We know, also by definition that it exists
But the only reason it exists, is because at one point it didn’t exist
Because it had to have started from somewhere
Otherwise it would have just been here to begin with
There has to be an answer, because, well, it exists……
I think it’s ranting now.
What do you think?
Is there seriously not an answer to this?
This is gonna drive me nuts
I think I’m about to lose my mind
Is it over?

Broken and broken
again on the sea, the moon
       so easily mends.

       Over the winter forest,
        winds howl in a rage
      with no leaves to blow.

Ere yet the sun is high
All blue the iris blossoms wave,
The color of the sky.
    
At dawn
The pink clouds,
Like hundreds of *****
Creep from the hollows of heaven

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
Jack died on ***** and Jill on pills.
Mary lost her little lamb
but she just don’t give a ****.

Little Boy Blue blows a new horn,
he’s the star of animal ****.
Humpty’s crack was caused by bad smack,
and Little Bo Peep finally murdered those sheep.

Old Mother Hubbard sells shrooms from her cupboard
and Mother Goose used to be called Lady Loose.
Old King Cole like to smoke pole,
while Little Miss Muffet licked **** on her tuffet.

All the kings horses banged all the kings men,
then headed to the Caterpillar’s ***** den.
The Pied Piper dropped E in the village well
and danced all those children to techno hell.

These fairy tales I’ve tainted, they’re twisted and sick.
So read it again and hide it away quick!
Mom and Daddy will yell, this isn’t ok,
but I’ve painted the truth at the end of the day.

Life isn’t all sunshine and roses and smiles.
Sometimes it’s darkness, loose women and their wiles.
I’ve just told the truth my dear little friend,
I hope you enjoyed it but this is The End…

He is funny. But we can see our differences.
I am funny, sort of. But,
somehow our funniness doesn't match.
he is kind, well behaved, everyone likes him.
But I don't know how I feel about him.
He is indeed interesting and exciting, fascinating.
But, I could not just let go and yet he is beyond my reach.
I am weird, maybe, and not in the good way.