sonnet

I don't whorange as much these days.

I don't implant shark cartilage or mewl with the old vigour.

I don't cabbage-patch elegies supermuch.

I don't FIGHT CLUB pear-shaped testosterone penguins at the Sappho Ice bar.

I don't chaperone Orlando Ocicat, though he still has a mean Lingus.

I don't NOT want Tarkovsky to make a Lifetime Television movie about your abscess.

I don't think a gluegun is defining in that cynical Kappelmeister porn way you do.

I don't believe in the hardcore Joey Stefano burnt undies approach to spring forsythia.

Some of the others do.

I saw I had fallen very far from the caribou I had promised to send while still a waif.

I noticed then John Ashbery was hogging the ocicats again.

I saw these pussy willows were not going to metamorphosize themselves before sunset.

I spoke aloud my desire to Frankenstein a brother to a hot ass.

Some goatherd was singing: "Nobody can tent Moz gladioli in your draws like a vet..."