If you’re going to live out contradictions
Put them all on the same page at least?
I did, I did! I rage and plea
But oh, I spill my tea.
In all the fume and excitement I forget almost
This ecstasy dyes out the daily planner
And makes my hours a wash.
Did you see the rain? The sky collapses
And putters, putters, and the laundered specks
Drizzle past pebbles as out the pipes they fly.
Oh, Daisy! Don’t say it’s just water,
There are bubbles, bubbles
Even mud sparkles, and leaves, those punks, rot livid
With license more liberal than contumacious life.
And, to speak of drizzle, what’s them gushes
Our pipes splash squirt in the night’s hush moan thunder?
Blush, flower? Don’t toss those hips like daffodils
Then, when breath cascades and our rushes flow.
Bad, bad metaphors. Mixed like rain and hail
And the static that mars trees and sunders mis-scheduled souls,
And then the spin cycle thrown in for sure.
I know, I know. Metonymy’s my better measure.
I shall take tits for you, and bum for me.
Today the Bum issued a statement
That Tits are required
To work the Bum’s fields, and reach consensus
With the Bum’s bad logics, and leave a peck
On the Bum’s sweet brow. And from brow to lips,
I take my own hint
To bend mine to Tits’ soft tit.
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