And so now it begins,
a constant angry
and extensive rank and scroll
of rage and charge.
So of always used words and wards.
Heart and soul
and every poetic truth and cliche.
So cruel in its delivery
So Sweet in reward.
Yet as is and as always,
Shine and mare in bath and baited.
Curious is the fantasy’s truth
and twisted in celebrity and power.
Charged and blocked of the like,
Idiotic in distraction,
blind in rage.
So deaf, so blind in where and what
and how it was lost.
By the matters of the lost and loss,
and of no more.
A make up so corrupt.
So of these goddamned poetic constants
of cliche anguish.
What a love and lust and drive did live.
What, and nobody.
Gone and dwelled.
What a sweet divine,
such an ache of joy and the like
and listened listlessly through time.
Sit now, and bare to this tale of the latter rambles.
A tale so of no tale at all
of that of a vicious and joyous and loving
and the like.
All about so as and as once again same.
A tale so heard before yet
told or scribed.
So please, sit and bare this story
of the inhibitions, of the lustful joys