The poem, listed on the Registry of Poems as “Poem”, grew nothing,
stayed there.
Alien mixtures of hydrocarbons, dimity and sand. Piles of wordplay
scored from prehistoric rocking. Stood upon the heads of greatness and
crushed. Trapped in a topic sentence with stellar warmth diminishing.
An appetite for growing old.
Tunneling lingual sport.
Search fragment tower feud.
Opulence is belief.
The firm of wearing out, associated within stressed nature of even the
least module of meaning, tells of its stymie day.
Welladay, and what a night.
Further implications stun with acquiescence to impractical means.
Shortage of really want to be there. Too much of this clever depredation
of instinct. Candle held to egg, egg is empty.
Thoroughly modern featurette reveals these half truths, that almonds
were created sequel.
Buoyancy retards fragrance. Shark bites halfassed surfer, literally
halfassed. To be fully assed in these days demands lack of shark mouth
entry.
The poem, meanwhile, struggles in its cage.
The gosh of snow season, when we turn to something, seems so.
Which poem is the last, when you start choosing? Reader, make a list now.
