I'll have a hard time forgiving
The Art Students who were
marinated in cynicism
And left to bake in the hot sun
With brown sugar
sliding down their throats

Who speak only the language
of French
And the language
of Artistic *** and Textiles

And
of course
The boys with the floppy hair
Who **** vinegar into scratched up sinks
And snorted ******* off of the eyelashes
of diet-coke-head-high-school girls
Who grew up
Grew their hair
And let their cheeks sink like ships
Into the cluttered caverns of their mouths

These girls are always wide-awake
and fast-asleep
And they never get drunk off of
incandescent light
And never remember to turn off
the tap before they go to sleep
But not in their beds
'*** their heads
told their necks
They didn't need the support

Cynthia's gone
Across this universe.
And, if there is a heaven,
She'll never have
To deal with Lennon.
He called her Cyn,
A name with
Quite a homonym
For deeds that once
Defined him,
Before he was
A man.

Your indigo crystal aura spins through the meteorites and rock matter
Creamsicle wheat, gold aura'd
The golden freed, guild and greed appealed. As if

from up the causeway of some starving and scary ghosts. If Shel Silverstein had ghosts their ghosts would be still too decent.

In the tired eyes of friends and their declarations- I have no cyn to give nor cywm to live. Tired am I of breezing through narrow rills in Hidden Creek the obvious spillway ditch of our not even near immortal wealth that weighs on the souls of the outlying suns.

Realize that active sight, only breathes from active mind.
And until today I never realized that I don't mind child. My child
My sweet sweet child of the radiant and crimsony misty blue and white skies through divine amber and aurulent lights, that twinkle acrosss such

Incredible sea-green and robin's egg blue colored ocean sized eyes.
From these Ides whereon I've drifted supine, lost, scattered and random
In the weeping tide's of Alice's watery eyes.

I might appear to be a cyn-ic
  but don't call me sin-ful Nick!