To your thwarted, weakling sun,
Hunched, nestled among the weakening leaves,
This bastard gangplank,
Chugged and misfit,
Stapling all your groaning brakes.
Fossilized pistols, wracked and sobbed,
Crystallized with junk and murdered filaments;
Redoubled with joice,
Frantom skim, and perpush;
Frantic salaclaster, Germaned alkaline –
The Art of Apology
Is it just me, or does Pepsi taste soapy
When you have trouble expressing things emotionally,
Like when to be slimy, a snail on the vine
And when to conceive of an erudite line?
Why is it that seeds are so easily sown
When the thing that is dirt is what turns you on?
“Regrettably so,” says the dial on the radio,
“Regrettably so, regrettably so.”