Hold aloft the crown of thyn jovial Constipations

A Can of bathtub infusions
Salts the essence of my tears,
How they scrub me deeply, firstly
and undo me, only, in the second act of this unholy, theory,
Sullen, drowsy,

Take pity with a drink for a knock on my liver
sprouts a bloom in my urethra

A Tongue lashing from my lover,
in the mirror
Who stares when I close my eyes, only…
Only…
I am hungry for my one and only.
My Last breath. My empty eternity.

If you do not mind me, death sang, then I am lonely
But I do mind you, I began, ’tis living I abhor mostly

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If You Know Me By Now Then You Don’t Know Me At All

If I crash my bag of incontinence and it flourishes beyond my reach would that make it O.K. for my defendants to do as they very well please?

I ask earnestly and would appreciate an answer pithily lest this caffeinated cup of tear-drops loses all character.
I’ll have you know my tongue only appreciates painstakingly cultivated character,
in all hot beverages be they tall, thin, and wide or not at all in between either way from here to there.
In a matter of speaking.

So if you will without much further undue digress afford me singularly a response
Do not mind my feelings, truth is of the most – the utmost, I beg your pardon – validity.

You’ll Find Me In The Texts

The Whole Truth Honest Truth and Nothing but the Truth subsides these boarderless realms with their dead punctuations which exist merely as ghosts and every breath stolen and every glide of the eye so smooth and uninterrupted an illusion of structure of sense rises from nothing but the grammar of perception or the perception of grammatical reason which grounds firmly the idea or belief that as long as the word which flows and runs on down stream from the bosom of honesty makes logical sense then there is no need for any of those clunky and clanky punctuation doodly marks

Quite jubilent, considering.

Money on a park bench, what good fortune.

Baby in a stroller smiles at me,
what serenity,
and all packed so sweetly,
into such a tiny little body!

Kind old ladies sharing tales of the good times,
when they fell in love,
when they watched their kids, grow,

All delivered in a stream of nostalgia so infectious my own heart swells
like the clouds above,
raining down a shower of glorious emotions.

I cry with a smile on my face.

It’s moments like these when the pure value of life truly shines bright.

I say aah! to be the humming bird flying round and round a plump humming bird.

Such a transcending vision

I cry with my arms open.
Welcoming the world.

[And she built a bonfire to burn her Liar-Liar collection of 1970’s panties, they caught on fire rather quickly, adieu – she said – While dancing to a tape recording of Bach’s ironic harmonica concerto: Die Toten Honig Himmel]