Thursday, January 14, 2016

Rave Review

Freestyle poetry is a game of chance.

You never know a masterpiece

from shitting your pants,

the critics will decide;

and say that


"it's improper,

this nonsense

that he proffers!"

Then, like a snake,

like a creeping vine,

a sickness they can't define,

and they cannot escape:


"How vile,

how vacant,

in depravity

his elation in making sin;

how sick these nimble shadows

leaping on a once-dead page;

how insidious their plan

as they enter your

skull and sing

of cockroaches

skittering.


Decidious dissolution!

This design of deception!

How evanescent, this line

gone flying into the night of

your perception, come alive by

electrons racing through transistors,

and what is man, what is man

but a conduit then, and

suddenly afraid I

must flee, fly

be far away

humming

until I

sleep."

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