Oh lion, liar,
snake, oh goat
neither reptile, mammal,
nor best of all time.
You serpent, low
belly, cold, scaly,
goat, you bloat,
the smell ain’t weird,
it’s disgusting.
You fibbin’ fat
scoundrel, mouthpiece
for those who feel lions
don’t get their due,
who exactly are you,
chimera?
You inspire duplicity,
engender fecundity
of little sins,
that collide and collude
until they exude
you, patchwork monster.
None of you is real, but
the colossal infection,
demand for genuflection
before an altar despoiled;
your hunger for tribute,
while you relieve yourself
in a deluded church;
preach good against bad,
steal from the offering.
It’s your brand.
Paper time
Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil
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