the tossed locket

o sacrilege of ego 

my only savior is art

flaming grimaces burning

piked eyes that ruffle clothes

chomping sewn sausages

killing stomping out bliss

all roads to art lead my way

but what would the sculptor

make of this?

crumpled elderly artifacts

withering and all so compact

something so dull on a

gazeless afternoon

pecs like iron artillery

with lingere livery

around all who lack

lapse at end of day

nuturing shadows

my individuality

and all sonnets

thrown aside tossed

like a flaccid penis

to stinkys dumpmart

yet ive grown

so fast i may explode

and may i?

may all poets go naked

regardless of worth of gold

of girth of how they trigger

send me a sonnet; moonlight

misery is to exist

but a pure rose

may stop my

slit wrist

maybe a flame aglow

with you one soul

my girl ;a kiss

one sight

so blurred

one highway

one road

one milton

ah;bliss

so says

i