Hot Milk Drunk on Mind

Not a moment too soon, and I wrote

poems in my sleep, with a swan baby

and potion of magic, a wingéd math

equation ate its weight in pi, a sight

like a lake on fire, like a daft dilly

in suit of burgundy, laughing in jest

at an old man’s penis, shriveled and

and skunky, intrepid and lord-like;

stuffed with pimentos, the pig man

pushed the coward to the ground,

and moment’s before, I dreamt in

rhyme, vomit bat, crashed a tat, borne

of fire and liquid desire, but I stopped

the madness, when an irregular verb

showed me his new hat, like sweat,

like sweet, like Auden in spring,

like moss and circumference, rotund

and rigid, valiant and firm, the brink

of madness, entwined with pepper

and verbosity, I felt the fan’s cool

air brush my face, move my eyelash,

and I stepped into the nonsense world –

life is color – I splashed the hot water.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on March 17, 2017.

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