when words drop like petals in spring
or fruit in fall sometimes picked,
briefly savoured but nothing more,
what next Moon? June?
for fucks sakes pass the sugared spoon
that I may cook myself a swoon away
from these cloying clichés
I should ink these words into my flesh
carve a blue belief not surrender to the barbed relief
of a working wage dangled before my eyes
but the mouth’s of babes and their damned truth
emasculate all I bring to bare
today better maybe to zip it away than wrestle naked
with the less than paronymous
for at the blind tasting of a lifetimes struggle
how shocking will it be when the mask is lifted
and the parochial font is revealed to be me
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