Monday, June 14, 2010

Verse I, Edict

Postponement in atonement, my own component, I own it.
Condone trips to lone strips. My bones, a brick. Why clone the sick?
Light shone with thick strips. Drum kicks and numb bits with some
Lit. How much sense do I make, why so tense when I take the
pen in hand. My den, I planned, to land on other sand, beforehand.
On a comet harnessed. Which artist can mar it the farthest?
Wallah, Syrah, huzzah. Sip till my head is blurred, and the said-so,
inferred. Never deterred. Clever speaker, with a better leisure.
Eased and pleased by the Bay that be Monterey. Choose to stay.
Lose no day. You, blue, go ‘way. Left is odd array.
Magic spell, send critics and overconfident writers to a tragic hell.
Encapsulated in a spastic cell. Not a sarcastic yell.
Venom spitter, more immediate than Twitter. Stand with band, not a
sitter. Enjoy the Cabernet’s play and way, emitter.
Welcome rival scribes, imbibe my tribe’s vibe.
In vino veritas, watch me glow, weary lost. In the log I bury cost.
Incendiary fogs, I’ve been to many bogs. The pour makes way for play,
more lore...

(Monday 6/14/10)

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