Tenor

I want to be a paperback writer

It's not bitter. The tinfoil licks grind at my braced tenor. Anxient, perhaps.

Instigated and propagated into the tip of the nerves.

 

Balanced on whim, it is then we learn to swim through the sole starred leather. Tough and hide sitting off the end of a couch. The times sift like newsprint does when everybody is screaming, and she asks how anyone can hear.

Pantomiming deafening

laughing

Costing the wall a glance-inarticulate

 

Bumbling fool

None understand a mutterer

No matter how often he pretends to speak

wishing listening

doesn't make it so

 

Drifting like a stammer forgotten

Asserted past foreign failure

She has voice-learn what you can before the fall

memory punches through the snide sky

How many miles is it, tea cup?

Allure the fan demurring

avoid attention so readily hand in purse

 

shut the lip blipping on sattelites

revolving involving hindsight

a fast orbiting thought

 

Dawn, read it

not on a stone

yet, pride

in a peanut.