Slippage over time is tough on it-self.
Accessible formability & long avenues of buttoned-up sonnets,
bragging about their own experimentations,
indulge in shrunken head sweet refusals of selflessness.
We possess their many virtues of
preachspeak
to the ire of Frosty ear in late March.
But, to you, my you of Royal Iness
i cannot begin to express Dickinsons’ moistest
rhyme, as they are roping in nature's most enjoyable, losing horses.
There’s nothing better than invigorating someone’s tweak,
with extra sludge of feeling-stop who stop
at nothing to laugh at our Tiddlywinks of tricky spun years.
Never be too anxious to win poems addressed to our hearts,
as we reason together in grand, engaging stutterings
of clenched baby fists.
Because that dog don’t rhyme.
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