Strum my vocal
cords like your nylon,
Then I'll see if I can say it.
My window is making the world a cartoon.
But I'm starting to need synthetic rubber
for my graphite world.
So gray, so tasteless, so bland, so insipid, so foggy.
I'll hand you a guarantee
that my interneurons hate each other.
Their daily synaptic battles completely annihilate.
The most mechanical thing to me -
the only thing to operate immaculately to me -
is this transparent, tainted apricot contraption.
Squeeze me by hand.
You won't get anything.
No, not even piquant nectar.
The fruits of your labor will be worthless.
So when I try,
But whose fault is that?
This page was last updated on June 19, 2009 by the KIWW Webmaster.