They like Delicate Poetry.
Only Delicate Poetry.
Almost a delicacy.
An urinary hesitancy.
And they expect that from a poetess.
Always the Poetess.
Who are "They"?
Who erected such Byzántioi?
Who cooks the remains for the losers?
Shush
I have a novelty for itch of you:
our Poetess is right here
waiting for yous.
I am two
inside her bawdy.
And She is not jubilant.
Now,
all you got to do is come down
twenty-five steps then turn left.
Maybe I'm on the right side. Wrong. Mute.
Maybe this basement is silent too.
Certainly much more gloomy than deep dark.
Facilis descensus Averno.
Be care
if I care.
Otherwise how could Poetess grab them.
Who are "Them" anyway —
men?
women?
somefang?
odder delicate poets?
the Gilga meshes?
dronedaries?
Donald Ducks?
AI psychos?
otakus?
C'mon
this shit is getting me weeeeary
my Kershaw jaws quiver
bleeding all over the cold floor —
the Great Rome of triumphal aches.
You may slip in Poetess' blob blob blood
and I wont forget that Ever.
Maybe I'm right beyond my drawl wrongness after all.
See?
I havent finished off the poem yet.
Now you have to descend filthy-two steps.
The longer you take, the more I write.
Oh, not me, no.
The up-and-coming poetess inside my clenched hands.
Would you save her?
Or me,
her Pthree-sixty-five,
her petrified cotton-head,
the Great Bert All Brushed.
Course not.
I know From.
Beginning told me:
There is a time to predate spoken language.
There is a time to cannibalize written language.
O lord, now I can sniff out
the First You coming right twart me.
I can hear.
Here now at last.
Young, large and fresh. Mesopotamian.
Anticathartic.
The blade stops quivering, my ladies daddies.
Every line a victory.
Every cut a Thebes.
Applause, paws!
Poem is ready.