When I scribble mean verse
the verses flow harder and hotter
to bury this worst
under curses worse.
It follows then
that my cruel lines
become the spines
of brooks verbose.
It's what I admire
in writers. The ability
and agility to knock down
and pick up and knock down.
The repeated blows glow
with the hum of a billion
bottles, drunk by a million
mouths, thirst still.
Firstly, we tried to be good.
Finally, we wasted our goods.
In the middle, there were
paragraphs. Laughs.
Half an ass is cheek.
Passing right will speak
to the other cars and say:
I do not respect you.
In saying, the passer
will lose the right to the lane
left or center or side. Hide
me in the bushes.
I was mean. I am sorry.
An act for a state.
A fate for a crate
filled with older me.
Roman Ryan 