Wood chip another tree, please.
All these goofy dumb awkward jeans men,
free me from their ken, as they do not give
or give or give. Here, I am, with my luke
warmth caffeine, broken up like an ex,
spoken out like a sexless sex, a torpor
coming on like a torpedo, selecting
experimental settings in which some
one tries to be two, letting the flue
become a brew, like this medium
toast that flies slower than it flows some
how. Now, I could become an extraction
joint; I would rather hot, rather semi
colon, and enjamb my pieces that were
meant to be together, gathered together
here today to make idiom of pejorative
memories, on a bed of noses, hosing down
the failures that got us to this point.
Roman Ryan 