Nine years passed, we all grew old,
Tears don't last, and neither will gold.
When all is said and gone and done,
Intent is the only song that won.
Enough of this rhyming poetry,
I'm tired of what I hear.
It's time instead I wrote for my eye,
And not compose for my ear.
Every story in words has a particular smell,
Of a plane in the dirt, or a liar from Hell.
To thee on shores of Lake Ontario,
I'd like to see more of your tail yo!
Ancient sword and white napkin sabrage,
De-corks champagne of a by gone age.
The duty of rhyme is for beauty that shines,
The intent of prose? The rhythm of growth.
Romulus seduced a lupine strumpet
Love induced by divine trumpets.
Supine cantua amused a wench.
Remus confused by bovine French.
The nerve of a vampiric satire,
Babelicious curves which will not tire.
Fake fangs and fights in mud,
Slake my thirst with flights of blood.
Twins, our shoes live separate lives,
They win and lose as husbands and wives.
If Donald Trump should heed the call,
to lie and pee beside his wall,
I’d hate to miss the sound and fury,
Of the Rio Grande filled up with urine!
If I can't write a rhyme, I'll have to just drop you,
With a name set in time of a gal who out talks you.
Tantric experiments in symmetry,
Make limbic merriment, naturally.
Truth's in fabric of shitty media,
Put some tooth in what Kubrick feeds ya.
Hide the truth in plain sight,
prop it up for all to see.
Let it fly like a child's kite,
then you call it conspiracy.
When poetry of youth is gone,
. . . adultery hears truth in song.
Icarus fell, on wings of wax,
Gold as well, before April tax.
Mathematics of meter and rhyme,
Makes asthmatic all cheaters of time.
Equations with numbers our deeds are encumbered,
By meanings that feed us yet die.
Yogi Yoshi graced my door,
Feet upraised, hair on floor.
'Tis not a perversion to say kundalini,
Made inversions in Santorini!
Thasos Mykonos Santorini,
Yogi Yoshi in a bikini!
Yogi Yoshi in Mykonos town,
Taking poses upside down.
Octopi are free-floating, an achievement worth noting
Not jellies for crustaceans in hiding.
Forsaken their shells, for intelligence from hell,
and mastered the art of beguiling.
A residency in poetry would makes tenancy a dependency.
The menacings of sharks at sea brings harmony to the ocean tree.
She's loaded, lit, pilots retiring,
Weather well-boded, and fit for a firing!
Some night when we're feeling fine
After a rich meal we've taken with wine . .
Tell me some tales of gals with young males,
And afterwards I'll tell you mine.
Natasha got married on a tour of the bay,
To a boy who spoke Russian as well as Anglais.
There were artists and critics and writers of reviews
Salmon and shrimp and fancy hairdo's.
A sentence does time, to restore justice of rhyme,
An equation is persuasion: "Take an eon, on vacation."
When I know all Gnossiennes,
. . . Then I'll go 'homme parisien'.
Just a bloke, with poetry,
. . . who plays the notes of Eric Satie . . . .
The alignment's right for sexy poems,
Sized on sight by respectable tomes,
What's struck down, when once on the town,
Is permission to romp as we roam.
Kerbel Space employs fanatics,
to confuse the pace of mathematics.
Cerebral 'g' is same on Earth,
begins the game of denying birth.
Adjust the day with poetry,
Wait to play some Eric Satie . . . .
The gamble's up, minutes are down
Our fables fucked up, the climate's not sound.
Bitcoins say that Gold is dead,
Goldbugs see a craze ahead.
"Don't fly too close!" old Dedalus said,
"You'll die like most in the cold sea like lead."
A dragon speaks with forked tongue,
Sagan will teach that you've been stung,
Musk was read into what went down,
And now he hides like a Martian clown.
Though Natalie writes some poetry,
She knows she's not seen eternity.
Words fall to earth, seeds push up fruit,
The writer gives birth, or hides like a newt.
What heavenly yearning was sent,
All that poetry on Earth had meant.
