It has been many moons since the day I last prohibited my poetry upon your being. In honour of that, here is a new one I aspired to while dreaming days on the bus this fine young morning. I have been working greatly to improve my work, greatly in the highest expense, and therefore have improved affordingly.
From poet to infinity,
Like the celestial bosom
Of DeMille's last strenuous
Sessions with Hercules, the might
The break, heart, Sysyphian push
Cystalline in the defenceless winter
And a wither of a lamb, small
Limited in number, as an eaten veal
Would struggle towards the light.
Pulling, pushing, the womb
Can stretch your finest, fiercest hour
So definist, never let them swagger
BE STRONG IN DEFINITION
and climactically would fall
towards the discotheque (metaphorical)
Phosphorous Of Ages.
In other news, I long for a vocation. Life is much and many, and I am few with suffering. I have been looking into many places quite warm, and others very cold. I have not decided as of late.
Must be Wainwright week
1 week ago