The words written,
have me feeling
sickly and un-smitten,
through the text,
be me sensing one
yellow-starred Apex,
“art”, or something,
special status – VIP
gums – bumping,
keep it sloppy,
your literary versions
parties with Pop Queens,
it almost hurt me,
be not for a sudden
void of curiosity,
two masters, one crown,
too many jars
full of HONEY to count,
volume’s up, open trunk
toes tapping
to your wordy junk,
speakers thumping,
I take the trash out at night
blood stops pumping,
and…..so here I go,
paddling my way
to be broken by the sea,
be it one born of saline,
or oceans of lies
it is my serpentine,
and I, its wiry chord,
whatever be it was
to my own accord,
do not folly to believe,
that my yellow star
takes you or your
so-called “poetry”,
in the least bit seriously.