Pathetic excuse for a poem

Life in the butter guts and cords of assassin

Amble on home fries with ketchup dispensaries

Bound for old glory in dew windowed times

Maybe a better swan or maybe a cheesecake

Maybe a reptile, a skylark, a jet

Swooning the sky with archdimpled dreams

Puffs of epoxy resonate freely in stars

Stagger the legs and saunter the belly

The dumpster alone dives in the night

Aimless and sorrow-felt scratching at itches

Underneath flannel, underneath belt

Picking up pieces where no morsels are kept

Batman pajamas and pill bug vasectomies

Hopscotch on rollerskates till we all fall down

Nowhere did anyone say breathe or sweet

Never was there a mock turkey pinch

Everything was real then, saddle held firm

And no one, not anyone dared remain sane.

(WTF. This is why I don’t write poetry.)