7200
I. e., this unfortunate
mere erred reflection,
aye re: zine
(pronounced Syne),
cuz you Matthew
Scott Harris
act like an
old curmudgeon,
does nothing
but whine...
this one dimensional
mere silver,
copper film and
multi layered shine
of waterproof paint
on back surface
doth deign
as merely superficial
float glass fine
visualization can
not detach itself
(analogous
to a Siamese
twin engine
eared ensign)
sullying for all the
world wide web
to see mine
capricious, facetious,
and inglorious
rotten chine
(vis a vis via,
sexually seedy, Nein
dynamic,
salaciously scabrous,
spicily shamelessly pine
ning sultry rhyme
(without reason)
attempting
to wax eloquent
as nonpareil poetry
by futilely try'n
to make a
silk purse
out of swine
(actually a
sow's ear),
meanwhile dine
'n high and
mighty trump
petting haughtiness
hoping to line
up ducks
in a row at mine
(your poor reflection),
hmm...wondering
mebbe I can
latch unto
a stein
way praying
for some means
to become divine
very aware that
no mirrored
reflection can exist
from a
corporeal entity,
who cannot
ever hurt or kill me,
but,...yeah
go ahead,
and take
a fist
also aware
nothing can undo
that banal, carnal,
and offal dreck,
which materiel
could be
ideal grist
for erotica
such as Hustler,
and/or Penthouse,
where prurient
Lady Chatterley's
naked lunch
evocations
conjured behind
wordy myst.
