Advanced Poet (AP)
No more pretty poetry from a poet,
Just wicked pronouns dressed in funeral attire.
Caskets full of whatever onlookers inquire.
Murdering papèl sheets just so you know it.
Reverse couplets in couples…
I just want Metaphor to deliver triplets until her knees buckle.
Suckling her breast for the spontaneous discharge.
This charge, is all that’s needed for me to take charge.
Accepting alternating voltages for my stationary oscillations, impatient revolutions; the revolution squirts forth from reveling pen tips, fan breeze and Uniball paper scars.
My paper’s mate hearts ink.
Using blots to clot wood lint like chain links.
I volunteer verbs vigorously for genocide camps.
Bottle-necking stanzas into suicide brochures under coffee table lamps.
Issuing cavalier citations professing as invitations to the authors of prose.
I chose to pen this in blood, dancing mahogany stems in one cup of… all that bled from my knows.
Eyes, nose… better than most of society that poets are syntax pros.
Unappreciated unlike mathematicians,
They break numbered equations and we decipher alphabetical codes.
They provide schematics and we put the magic semantics in magician!
Advanced Poet, that’s just another way of saying, seasoned poetry.