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Finally
I’ve had it with font choice, with flush Left, with fake quatrains. Sibilance I hearby abjure, onomatopoeia shoo!, die weighty Enjambment, get thee gone slow syllables, pregnant
Line endings, the whole predictable claptrap Of stanzaic patterning. Yes, let’s embrace No time’s spontaneous mind. Let’s calibrate Sacrifice, criticize power, call a friend
A friend, and live without hogging the harvest. Tolerance, be the new metric, the “other” Our erotic porthole. Let’s slip into the lap pool, Get wet with the word, be nothing but brains
Abuzz with irrational bees. Poetry’s the coconut That under the drowned sailor’s head finally sprouts. |  |
