My lines, candid. Never my mind, branded.
Spare me your scripts. I continue in Bordeaux sips.
Cab Franc, I have wants and needs, I’m on the free,
despondently. Unseen amalgamation.
My theories are postmodern, barely discernible.
I earn the pull I exhibit. Disinhibited, my posture;
I need a Sylvia Plath, ‘cause I lost her. My favorite
pour, I lay in the lore, forever maimed and adored.
(Friday, 1-21-11)
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