“Oh, good grief! How you do stand the-“
“Shh. Shut up and swing about.”
~*~
In passing of breathing pain –
a seldom voiced weight –
what prevents the difference
from crawling up a wall
and sainting the rib
into the murals of history?
In behest of tantalizing,
how does the blurry,
little drawing pecker itself
into a cubicle of still pretense?
That bastard!
That animal of mortal sense
running around against itself!
The Nocturnal Versifier 