Actualities subside
In my self-deprecation
Grand decides
That there is no real venture in
Some self-septitude
Ore reaction
Like snacks in grass.
Crass gets you nowhere and the brazen kiln
Is the only life
Where the leif of all belief
Is somehow run on star-power.

Dialects resolve
And utter confusion is the unprojected outcome.
There’s people for that and they study the taboo origin
Or ways that seem cankerous
For sore-teeth and blood red spit
To salt the ground of the earth.
And still – I’m not sure how of all your filth and utter
Roof-grate pin swashing comb brooms
That is all the immediate attention.

I still haven’t found your credibilities.
No contract or clearance really would sum up the indifference.

Boisterous clowns love chasing after red bouncy balls
As if the jack didn’t choose a target.
I wear tiger’s eye on my wrists and chose 49 caliber.
I have no competitor in that range.

They never even got the confetti to pop at the rodeo.