"spyglass" poems
there was little hedgehog he just long to be
a little Sherlock holmes and solve a mystery
he bought himself a fiddle and a pipe and hat
then off to solve the puzzle of the missing cat
searching for some clues to where the cat could be
looking for some evidence sherlock holmes was he
he took along his spyglass to see what could be found
searching everywhere in the forest ground
he searched for while along the forest floor
there and back again and again once more
suddenly he heard a little purring sound
hedgehog he decided to take a look around
there he saw the cat he had trapped his paw
he was very stuck and couldnt walk no more
hedgehog dug him out now the cat was free
no longer was he missing he solved the mystery
hedgehog played a tune upon his little fiddle
just like Sherlock Holmes he had solved the riddle
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
**the banner photograph that the poem references is off now, but...
The poem is about a photo I took, outside looking in, where the window and an interior mirror, both reflected me, outside, outwards, but caught the interior of the house within, and the interior of our lives, which was my intent, but the poem came later....
a self portrait,
a reflection
in a window, in a mirror.
a man stick figure
within and without.
me hidden, armed,
iPad spyglass
one upon the other,
unaware of observation,
introspection / extrospection.
man, external,
grilling striped bass,
woman, internal,
kitchen caught slicing heirlooms,
a dressing awaits,
peach salsa,
the seagulls inform me.
Outdoors, indoors.
bay,
in the background.
living room, kitchen,
in the foreground
couching, crouching, cooking,
a closeup and landscape,
of two lives.
so the photo treatment,
introspection / extrospection,
upon reflection,
a poem ouside-insight.
a moment to reflect upon a reflection of a moment.
this how I see things,
and why not you too?
Double vision.
outside, looking in, inside, looking outward.
then,
at the point of intersection,
a memory recorded,
always recording,
paths, moments,
worthy of note.
such a note, here,
record of a photograph.
preserving my preservation.
tho photo blurry,
what you see,
is what I see.
lives of symmetry
summer symmetry is my life.
life is my summer symmetry.
exactly.
August 2012
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
there was a little weasel he was safari bound
he took a trip to Africa to the jungle ground
took his little case and a spyglass to
to take a closer look and a better view
now weasel he was ready his safari had begun
deep inside the jungle looking for some fun
there were lots on animals tigers and lots more
and some very odd ones he never saw before
there were lots of monkeys swinging in the trees
jumping branch to branch swinging with such ease
halfway through the jungle he heard a little yell
where ever it was coming from he really couldnt tell
he got out his spyglass and had a look around
to see if he could find this little yelling sound
suddenly he saw a little crocodile
he was very sad and been there a while
crocodile saw weasel and he began to cry
weasel was upset and asked the reason why
i am in a trap he said that someone laid for me
dont worry said the weasel i will set you free
weasel he was clever he knew what to do
through the trap of rope he began to chew
crocodile was happy he was trapped no more
now he had his freedom like he did before
weasel he returned from his holdiday
and thinks about the crocodile every single day
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
Real life has no filter;
It's sweet and bitter,
but mostly sweet.
Savour. every. moment.
See life as it is —
a stream of passion
that runs fast and
then dry. So go paint
the sky. no excuses.
paint the sky. do it.
I don't want to leave;
it was just getting good.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
Surviving beneath bypass
Cardboard ripping, some spyglass
Thin covering, protection
Sharpening knife, perfection
Past life professional man
Bad karma, God, dealt sad hand
Panhandling corner right here
Homemade sign makes purpose clear
People ignoring, glower
Certainly love hot shower
Having nothing accept rags
Don't own anything, no bags
Eating something, drugging, *****
What's needed most cannot choose
Spent long hot days begging cash
Got ***** finished dining trash
Trodded back to cardboard home
Peeking out feeling all alone
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
Men with rambling fever
Are born not bred
Their diagnoses are terminal
No cure but to go
And they sell their souls to the devil
For a train to hitch a ride on
And they'll die along the highway
While their women stay home
Remaking beds
That have never been slept in
I slept in this morning
Even though I didn't need to
I stretched my limbs
Out into the ocean
Trying to stay afloat alone in my bed
And through my spyglass
I still couldn't find the edge of it
No body of land to stand solidly on
I concluded that beds must be round
Orbiting microcosms floating through apartments
I got up and didn't tuck the sheets in
I got up and didn't make it
I didn't make it through college
Because as soon as I got settled
Into my air mattress
I un-made it
Everything called my name
I tried to ignore the voices
I tried to avoid them
But the mattress deflated quickly
The sails inflated cleaner than a cloudy day
The maps on my wall needed navigating
I had too much exploring to do
I've read about explorers
Men who made their fortunes
Hunting gold and looting temples
Never returning home
Because the beds they left, they had already met
Men who mapped the oceans
And gave their names to continents
Practically for free
I will freely admit that I'm like them
Unable to stop myself
From risking it all
For a chance at nothing at all
Unable to stay in one place
For long enough
To make my bed and lie in it
I will freely admit that rambling fever
is not ladylike
I will freely admit I'm an
Unsettled woman
I will freely admit
I shed lives and beds with purpose
I shed lives and beds like skin
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
I have been aboard this vessel for
Fifty months
Nine days
Ten hours
And some value of minutes
Which is unknown to me.
I am
Lost
At
sea.
For a while it was bearable.
I have enough water,
Books,
And *** to sustain me.
But now all I wish is to see a pair of sails
On the horizon.
I have nothing left
But to wander the seas
And find whatever is there
For me.
Days pass.
I have sympathized with the stars;
For it seems to me that they are also
Sailors
Lost at sea;
Traveling towards their own fate
In directions
Unbeknownst to me.
At night I look up
When the sky is clear
And greet them,
I wish them strong winds.
I wonder if they have looked down on me.
I have confessed all my sins to them
For they are all I have.
The stars and I.
And we sail the same sea
But we will never meet
For we are infinitely far.
This is our curse.
At times I have fallen asleep on deck
Beneath them
In my hammock
As the sea
Rocks me
And sings songs,
Songs of ports and
Sails
On horizons.
It was on the morning following such a night
That I arose
And at long last
Saw
With my own eyes
A sail in the distance
And I maneuvered so fast as my small craft would allow
To be near to him
And as I came closer
I looked with my dusty spyglass
And my heart dropped from my chest
For he flew a black flag
Which bore upon it a skull.
I am writing this now as they approach
For I know I cannot evade them
Nor outgun them.
I am writing this because I now know my fate:
To die by their hands.
I am horrified,
But there is
One thing that will give me peace:
That I may
Finally
Sail
Among the stars.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
I hardly journey there anymore.
Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.
The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.
The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—
Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.
I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,
Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.
On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.
Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.
The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,
Smudged thumbprint.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC
Pluviophile
(n) a lover of rain;
someone who finds joy and peace of mind
during rainy days.
Its raining again, I smile
The shadows of the droplets
Flickering in the window are juxtaposed upon my face.
I watch the delicate lines run down along my skin
Two of them parallel with eachother form a tic-tac-toe board
Between the shadows and the scars along my wrist
I chuckle with the morbid humor of carving in my first move. X. Bottom right corner
It's a smart move. I can move many ways to leave my opponent helpless
Distracted, I look again out the window.
I think about how as a child I watched
Wide eyed with ecstasy as two drops
One right next to the other
Edging
Edging
Edging forward.
One racing the other
Both eager to reach the window pain where they will finally be free of my unforgiving gaze
Last time I watched two drops race like that they were red.
The poor wood floor was stained with their bitter victory
I think now about that race.
Breaking my trance my eyes shutter over to the throw rug that I hide my sins under
I walk over and stand upon it.
I can just barely see the window from this angle.
I see the cold white tongue of lighting
Flickering it's serpents tongue in the distance
I remember a cold tongue.
The same one that degraded me
Told me nasty things
I remember walking threw the halls of school and hearing people muttering being me
'Look at her!'
'Hey guys who let the cattle out the barn?'
'Does she even own a shower?'
I felt spit sting the side of my face.
The crack of thunder brings me back,
I'm dizzy with displeasure
My blood has gone colder than before
Colder than the knife that cut me.
The rain intensifies as if it sees what I'm doing
What chaos I'm bestowing on myself
The smooth grip of my Father's 44 fits elegantly in my hand,
It feels like it's just an extension of myself,
As if it belongs there as much as my fingers do.
The chrome lined rifling grids out the direction of my bronze freedom fighter to fly
I look at the back of the barrel,
It reminds me of a toy spyglass I had when I was young,
**** the hammer
The thunder rumbles over the screams of my family...
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
Dear Stranger you've shown me the earth.
Not as I see it but as you do,
An ocular rebirth
You asked me if I'd like for a moment
To look through your spyglass
The one you hang on a chain above your heart
And see through tinted lenses
That refract tainted beams of time
The mountains you saw as a child
And thought holy.
Well, I do
I'd like to see that and more,
If you'd let me stay a minute longer
If you'd let me take shelter in your arms
Till nigh on the horizon looms the golden shore
Till the final notes are played
Of the song you heard as a child
The one that taught you how to smile
And quietly we'd keep awhile
As society's engines run wild
I'd wrap your head in flowers
To remind you of your existance
Your momentary brilliance
As the petals lose their form
And ease into sleep
Against your skin
We too would be freed from this world
Locked in our treehouse
A temple we built
To the gods alive in our bodies
A honeycomb house
Made of chambers
Identical to those in our hearts
We'd live there too.
I'd be a river
And you'd be my name
I'd carry promises
Like stones from the ocean
Downstream to be yours
We'd be the unlikely meeting
Of opposing poles
And we'd wear the smile
Of their newfound friendship
Like a coat
To protect us from the winds
In the eye of the storm
When all we can see
Is spinning too fast to hold
So we wouldn't try.
We'd sway to the push and pull
Of the wind
Like waves that wash away
The most magnificent of castles
Into millions of pieces
Waiting to be reassembled.
We'd whisper secrets like songs
And the first one would be
"yes"
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
i , yes, i , no not I but i in my life so young , have found
God. No , not God, life. No , not life, light. No , not light , darkness.
Oh, i , yes , i , oh.... i , saw , i...
through the rapidly clearing miso soup of my perspective
it is as if each whirlpool of salty broth , clears to reveal a single piece of seaweed
that splatters on the floor as i drop the bowl
oops
paradigm shift.
And just like that , the afternoon light which was just environmental delight becomes a so , essential detailed
prop to the existential conversations baseline drop
later , after i have pondered what this new fangled spyglass lends to my current present
i pick up a magazine by the name of 'Ok!' ... i read only the images and few words in english
i put it down
i have a headache.
i get up , i feel sick
i read the front 'Super Dad'
so harsh , so much pressure to fit into the narrow channeled idea
somethings got to give , this ain't living it's a waiting room for the already dead
Horoscope tells 'KNOW YOUR FUTURE NOW'
at least that's accurate...
( pun)
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
*Fatefully falling
He grabs the string
and pulls everything down.*
A spyglass of forgotten gems-
won in a rigged lottery
in the days before he was awake-
spies a land that has not yet been ravaged
in the pitch-black starless sky
not yet been taken
by the drilling crushing
by the empty words and hollow promises
The dreams do not prey on tonight.
They leave that vulnerable cardiac node
that empty dried well
for a delectable snack
in the times when the hollow men
should not feel so alone-
*Silently drowning
He grabs the rope
and pulls every hope down.*
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
From between your raised hips,
I see you with my spyglass,
you're such a pretty maiden.
Hurry,
up with the black flag,
slide down my mast,
fast,
lie on your backside
sweet lady,
this will last
forever.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
sailing down the eve of years spent
I set sail again
the horizon in my spyglass
up anchor
steer full speed ahead
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
I fall in love with broken men.
**** tragedies ****** me with sin.
Handsome cloaks of invisibility,
Obscure and trap in vain utility.
Hero and martyr of all your stories,
Vengeance sought for selfish glory.
Innocents injured from their quarry.
I fall in love with broken men.
Doors lock me out, keeps keys hidden.
Knocking patiently with open arms,
Getting too close trigger his alarms.
Suspicious eyes peek inside.
Skeletons spooked, he runs and hides.
Spyglass searches to glimpse vulnerability,
Weak boundaries highlight insincerity.
Pacifying chit-chat on future home owning
Facing real offer, reveals he lied for a showing.
I fall in love with broken men.
Eclipses excite those worlds they darken.
The moon shines brightest in the night.
Warm pulses beat faster, from dusk’s frost bite.
Fooled by familiar shadows, say devil I know
Not friend but foe, they rob me of my glow.
I fall in love broken men.
Mosaic glued parts, now misshapen
Pirated sea glass left ashore by a hostile.
Cut mermaids who seek a love note in a bottle.
Shatter lines leak, drips proof of last traumas.
Messy flaws teach wisdom, beauty from drama.
I fall in love with broken men.
Divorced of dreams and magic forgotten.
Shut eyes to memories to keep pain asleep.
Nightmares of happy times, disturb the peace.
Drugs pacify crying but fears never cease.
Haunted by ghost stories of witches and fools,
Masks hide his scars, but phantoms are cruel.
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 4:38 AM UTC
o vento fazia o pó levantar.
de olhar maduro,
óculos de protecção,
casaco preto e chapéu,
ao peito um medalhão.
ele era um rapaz nobre.
nunca se tinha visto ninguém como ele.
que segredos antigos estavam à espreita?
e ali estava ele,
flutuando na magia da brisa.
ao peito a mais perfeita arma de julgamento.
cano curto.
o segredo fora revelado,
e o carrasco chegava para mim.
com uma intenção maravilhosa de assassino malicioso,
Spyglass olhou-me nos olhos
e senti o vento no meu cabelo.
flashes de fogo na calada da noite.
a maravilhosa máquina de sua majestade.
gritei: "semeador de chumbo".
o sangue, escuro, corria, mortal.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
I hear many emotions disguised as words
These spoken feeling are dried then stuffed
all their glorious masculinity, now compacted
and their complexity is now rather compressed
emotions grinded into flat and blank thoughts
Sometimes i don't believe in words,
The way force themselves in and out .
For they falter when trying to explain colors,
Shades and tones always lack proper description.
Rarely do words capture that exact bend in light.
Nor that exact bend of your long neck,
foreign sensations my fingers once knew.
Words lack terms for the roughness of your face,
lack measurements for the smoothness of your lips.
And paragraphs won’t explain the feeling in my chest.
Nor can they explain the hollowness within my heart
When I could tell no one the secrets of my grief.
Only so many words can be used in a dying breath,
And Last words are usually much later said.
what did she wish to tell us on her death bed?
Nor can words covey those underlying emotions,
who tend to not speak too well for themselves
See, feelings tend to simply mumble and stumble
By sending mixed signals and double meaning
They ramble until the phrase is finally complete
But it is said that words are like a dusty window
They are like a man’s beloved yet cracked spyglass
Although words appear to be not quite clear,
And often find themselves fumbling desperately to be heard
They offer a outlet for our souls, otherwise left unspoken.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
Dirtiest mouth this side of Hell.
Ocean horizon eyes, laughter like
Galloping horses thundering by;
Making everything else
Shake with blissful amusement.
Like me.
Man...
We talk for hours.
You place a feather on
My fresh stitches; blow gently
On the burns and smack a good-
Night
Kiss from half way across the
World so directly onto my
Forehead,
I turn over and sleep like a
Bear cub momside.
You are more than you'll ever
See yourself.
You shine with shades of
Beautiful not yet
Mapped by those who do.
Your words attracted me.
Our attraction helped healing me.
We stand in sunlight, under
The silver sails
Of our friendship; cutlass drawn,
Spyglass raised towards the
Adventure.
I'll write with you until
We're both blind.
I'll laugh with you until
We suffocate,
I'll tell you a secret
Every time you want.
Until we share them all.
Then we'll make each other
New ones.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
From the smoke where all are the same, come back.
Tread the time and war observation deck,
Scan the flat lens of summer off it.
Porcelain caps flinch asudden to flick the ash
And a washing wave, fading in its splash,
Rolls the skull of Oleg the Prophet.
Where ebbs are sipping a mix of bricks,
By the sunken town and ruptured bridge,
Pull the net of the briefly known.
It's the truth laid bare that makes us crease,
It is not a stone we shall squeeze but cheese,
But compress it to strength of stone.
Wind is carrying tire hiss from the dam.
Not by prompt of age we'll replay for them,
For all those who lost before us.
Throbs of catfish under the clouded stream;
Meet the cold light, meet the anxious dream,
Meet the end of the shielding forest.
A yacht in the spyglass is changing course.
Kitchen gas is twinkling at dormant shores,
Kind of early to us the older...
Sunset touches scatter the soft relief
Of the amber shine at a Baltic cliff
And the tan of a pine tree shoulder.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:26 AM UTC
Drove 16 hours today
Up and down the interstate
Stopped for fast food in Denton
Felt my treads wearing thin
On 44 I felt like I was going to burst
So I grabbed one of the Styrofoam cups from the passenger seat
Dumped the half melted ice out my window
Relief down to my feet
In plain view of the policeman in his squad car
Watching for people like me
Desperate to get away, half-desperate to be caught
For a moment in my mind I can see the celebration freedom lights red and blue
Until some guy blows by doing at least 100
Breaking the spell
It's three hours later and I'm asleep on your couch
or pretending to be.
I can hear you arguing with your boyfriend in the next room
He's not nice, but he seems to know the score
You come into the room and pat me on the head
Hair like grease-soaked down.
I hope he' sticks to your ribs like your mother's cooking
I hope he plays your guitar when it rains
I can hear you mumbling reassurances
Spyglass in your hand
Pretty pink drapes to hide the grimy windows.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
I wish not...
To harbor these vessels.
For I know
In those holds is sickness.
Crates of longing
Often opened, empty.
Barells upon barrels
Of jet black loneliness
Forever splashing, unsealed, seeping.
So like my dreams
These ships of her navy.
Christened with shades of she
"Lost Love", "my One", "my only",
"nevermore", "ever after"...
They set no sail
Anchored securely off my shores.
Out of reach
Yet constant in presence.
Seeking no barter, no passage...
No plunder.
Ghostlike they haunt
All of what I most want.
And dreams like mine
Always calling
Taunting those black sails
In windless waters
Embracing no breeze
Only serving to open old wounds
My spyglass weeps
Fixed on yesterhorizons
Where gone and do go
Phantoms and shades
My sea of regrets.
Jfehlmann
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
Hath they quaver
By any other sway but West
To sunset
For its fallen brother
I would have taken
Far from mistaken
The beads of sweat from rest
Risen dried
Crackle bones lost milk of mother
And other
Departed as the bending sigh
The one that bred its daughter lie
So seed can bloom with mindful bride
Shed off the blissful slumber
Would golden blaze
Be unlike the brass war-chains
In low remains
Whilst weight shift in its wake
Tell moving breath
Out come its wealth
And not the founding of its pains
Slip from sightless
Gloss a cover of unknowing
Left bowing
No wisp of remorse or remiss
But metal shifts
And opened rifts
Divide an ocean outgrowing
Shards beneath
Emblazoned even if in dark
I shall hark
Precious dull that beckons breathe
Even if restrained
Will not let waned
How earthen dreams have left their mark
If I could see
Old ones with minds of gilded time
Would it shine
And make pearls out of shapeless sea
Take their age
Befit a sage
To wrap this darkened world with light
Safe walkway
Come by the cobbles by the days
And passing they
Make moulded casts of harshest clay
So must I
Wait then to lie
Once sibling star has passed my way
Ore-laid wreath
Weigh low my courage rash and weak
So bleak
Beside the timeless task to seek
Shores for the flame
Never the same
Like sands through spyglass let receive
Should they fall
In avalanche cascade their edge
A hopeless fledge
Understand a broken wall
Births fouled resentment
Doubtless consignment
The dam repent its burden baggage
Return
By rivers come a lightened sky
A catching eye
To spread the scattered overturn
Ringlets in the armour glow
Wind suffered gently blow
Witness resending wisdom fly
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
To compensate for (A -Z)
ineradicable alphanumeric
character flaws (i.e. mutations
of body or mind,)
and avoid amass
sing wracking up vexatiously
undesirable threatening class
action lawsuit against
Matthew Scott Harris,
which preliminary measure
taken to avoid disembarrass
sing said individual as
a majorly flawed individual
literal shortcomings of body,
mind and spirit,
the metier of writing doth encompass
a creative realm to trump
geomorphology, sans groundmass
at the unsolicited expense
(mine alter ego i.e. worst critic)
will gleefully find,
and expose grammatical,
misspelling, spelling,
et cetera errors to harass
glommed together with isinglass
hop, skip and jumping
to appear as a *******
whereat no respect
able collegiate lass
would give a fig about me,
one totally tubular royal morass,
which expert anthropologists
stumped asper nonclass
if eye able ****
sapiens mutant ninja turtle
case in point being his
wanting in height not e'en pass
sing the six foot mark
plus mental illness
perhaps traceable to
besotted cognitive damage
inherited predecessors
quaffing an overdose of quass
made obvious peering at resulting
Ct scan results viewed
via microscopic spyglass
revealing abnormal amygdala
automatically designating
his aptitude underclass
among average human
with mettlesome Zeusian brass.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC