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  • I often find myself in trouble for my foul-mouthed poetry.

    A misfit Muse manifests in me and
    I become a teller of titillating tales
    Typing terribly torrid text to tease the typewriter
    Dismissing convention, discontinuing conformity and
    Abandoning commonly accepted notions of normality.

    My heart is in my mouth.
    My head is in your hands.
    Hand me my head.

    Holding his hat he harangued happily.
    Heaping his heretical hypocrisies upon her
    Her hands held his head
    He heaved his hat hither and
    Hugged her hard.

    The rant rambles through my mind
    A horde of screaming madmen babbling
    Jabbering gibbering singing silly songs of
    Mystic mayhem vicious and without mercy!

    Lacking the ability to type well with no mistakes
    This faceless horde of voiceless faces
    Flapping tongue-less gums mumbles sentences
    Devoid of emotion and stripped of feeling.

    Words of wistful wisdom whispering ceaselessly.
    There is no peace without release.
    No tension without pressure.

    Image: The Artist & His Models -1946. Oil on linen. Antonio Gattorno(1904-1980).
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