A Satire For The Poet

This is a freewrite, and a bad one. But I'm horrid and confused and moody. If you're going to judge me as a writer on any piece, please don't let it be this one.

A gay, wet shrimp

Weasels, office-bound,

Head tucked between the legs

The wooden-pegs, hanging from a rail

The planeted hoard

Of the human stench

The burnt wax of life

Dripping, dripping

I didn't want one

Nor two, especially not you

A liar laughs, laughs, laughs

For who? A framed forgery

A plinth-like gasp, reaching

Like vines and veins

Forgetting who they are

Forgetting what this is.

I apologise in spit

A gasp, grasping onto this

I'm so-rry, so-ree, so-free,

Liar, painting, tongue.

The chemical forensics

Whisk me across the cheek

A stew of all of this,

The Elitists, they.

They pinken the cheeks I hold,

This sodden paradox,

This pathetic limp

In my throat - the aorta of words - 

Skipping like sundance,

My filter, Satan's crying waterfall

The childish state still drips

And waxes the walls of who 

I am, the iris walking.

Siren, Sibyl, 

I, silent. An ogre of this mask,

A beast for this brain.

Don't reprimand me,

Command me, demand me,

The punishment sits inside,

You need not - I hide, abide - 

A cherry acre will be you

Throated man 

With the deep, deep sea

I laid at your feet

Pat me, puppy-me,

With the glazed eyes

(No disguise, and died),

The corset without skin.