to finito my infinito;
a pile of unwrit
scripts, titles, single para,
all mine un~completed children
awaiting to be ejected
and rejected by you dears,
with spit+blood+sea salted tears,
they not understanding why it has
taken so long to exit the
twisty. serpentine birth canal thru
which they were conceived,
then, deceived! by a promise sworn
to be given initiating exposure to our atmosphere

once upon a time

there only forty six
imps and seedlings, now ***
the poem~notions come so fast
that there are more than
76 loonie~loosies,
poetic
scraps and scrapes & scrips,
waiting for
a match, a ******* in of the air
that requires stating:

Blessed is the Lird,
who inserted crazy potions
within in my eyes to save my
downtrodden soul.
And projectile re-iease them
To your dangerous selves,

Aman.