A Bit of a Handful
Foot zing diminishes after redress; today was stillborn arduous;
earthquakes tremble listlessness, unlured by tallow poesy,
very nice though it seems, a can of worms called cryogenic
masochism. the rood that unglued. nothing hinged springs easy.
Where is it to go?
Forlorn in no faced media; a crowd of ones and zeros swaps;
O not to live like that if I make it through this eternal night;
topdogs of a thousand faces; lit from underneath by lime
twixt screens disposed to wander looking for a break
a let up in the bombardment reveals
a paucity of rubble heaped beside a cranky trebuchet
lightly dusted with talc
redolent of instant mash