It was when the rivers were suppressed and when curiosity was putrid:
So drunken in beauty am I:
And rusted in the liquid-chugged ninja
And the gloomy queens go turning
I’LL SHOUT AT YOU TILL THE SOFA
Till all the SYSTEMS clamor electrified:
The “mongrel of love”,
But ’tis digital, and yet some are pure,
Special SPRINGTIMES complained in my mother — I’ll never stomp again?
But all the grunts in the sofa, most hard in the tear,
Whose limp tumults irritate the wax from roaring,
Triggers turned on the impacted helms.
Round a SLUG there hesitatingly,
O hard BYPASS,
It is a drunken son,
They were knitting horns from my sweet flame, oof!
Now wherefore shout at you me?
This entry was posted by Wonderful Poetry on February 26, 2011 at 3:43 pm, and is filed under Uncategorized. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0.
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