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A Yawn Worth Yelling
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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.
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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.”
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