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Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Number and Rhyme



Twins, our shoes live separate lives,
They win and lose as husbands and wives.

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!

What art is there to crunching numbers?
It thinks you're smart but dumps you dumber.

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.

We octopi are free-floating, an achievement worth noting
     Not just a jelly that's sliding.
We've forsaken our shells, for a nervous system from Hell,
     and mastered the art of beguiling.

If my tendency towards poetry is sexy to thee,
My prosody is parody and gives destiny to ecstasy.

Back in the throbbing eighties,
A pornstar came shopping from Hades.
She dyed her hair blonde, for boyfriends she conned,
And drugged them to stop them from mating.

Life tenancy in poesy is a residency, unfortunately,
But jumping to finality, turns weaponry to ecstasy.

She's loaded, lit, pilots untiring,
Weather well-boded, and fit for firing!

Some night when we're both feeling fine
After a rich meal taken with wine . .
You tell me tales of gals with young males,
And afterwards I'll tell you mine!

Natasha got married on a boat 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 language of rhyme,
An equation, not persuasion, gives occasion to duration.

When I know all Gnossiennes,
. . . Then I'll go home, by Sienna.
I'll adjust the moat, with poetry,
. . . Play the notes of Eric Satie . . . .

Bitcoins say that Gold is dead,
But goldbugs see a craze ahead.

"Don't fly too close!" old Dedalus said,
"You'll fall like most to sea like lead."

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.

In what heavenly yearning was sent,
All that Poetry on Earth had meant.



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