I
am inspired and will die soon.
It’s
survival of the fattest cat.
The
poet is the lowest link on the food chain.
I
swore off Coca-Cola, but I’m still eating plenty of sugar.
Mary
Poppins called and wanted her umbrella back.
The
hills are alive with music, Nazis and Mike Tyson’s high pitched shrieking.
I
don’t believe in sequels, but I watch them every chance I get. I didn’t believe
in us, but that didn’t stop me from pursuing you like you were a hound of the
Baskervilles.
My
lips were chapped so I bought some ChapStick.
I
put a saddle on you because I was bored of riding you bareback.
Dreams
escape me once I’ve awakened and the coffee seeps into my Semitic bones.
I’m
not a liar, but that doesn’t mean I don’t stretch the truth on occasion
especially when it comes to my exploits during the war or how I once so
recklessly loved you.
The
lions in the Coliseum took one look at me and ran the other way.
The
Christians on the other hand knew I was no match for them and took me apart
piece by piece and stanza by stanza.
It’s
survival of the most hyperbolic hypocrite. The poet is an endangered species
and if you don’t believe me that’s your loss and your stupidity working overtime.
Charles Cicirella
1/3/16
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