waking me now, there are demons who sing
sonnetry poetry (oh how lovely!)---
bound in this awful sad form that is me
the demons claw my brain mass and sting
nerves in me till bluish light radiates,
then the bards of old rise and stretch and dance
taps and jigs and signals to imitate the
words and music, rhyme and reason, rants and
chants and all the happy bullshit they love.
bark is what i am to them and they ride
me and i obey for they all reside
where my heart and mind and soul were born of---
they are dust i breathe each day and sneeze by;
and the and the and the
songs i sing them are my allergic cry.
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