A Yawn Worth Yelling The Smell Of Evening Butter
I am “the sourest Castro of fidelity”
I am “the most interruptive of honoraries,”
Seeping through the pores of a conversation, worming
Clawing at the clutches in the words
The hopping of the birds
And every week the signs are getting clearer, nearer
For narration of my life in decimals
Burnt fervor, drowned by the ponderous-they're on to us!-boorish burden of a blink
Blistering listful;
“Your form of language leaves us languid
Jaws filled with invisible pillows
Gape for us. Gape for us!”
Interim of our breathing, replaced with rest
“You mouth you're wordy, but words from your gritted teeth never speak as loud as you'd like them too, isn't that right darling?
Talk for me, I'm all ears and earnestly amused.”
