the cavalier of less brilliance


I stand for the ethical treatment of paper clips.
This is not a head trip. In my cadaverous grip
are coupons for cream cheese and oregano. If your demitasse
tastes of cedar, you might be a cosmopolitan lumberjack,
headed to the Brian Pillman Memorial Show. Take off your
hat and shield your eyes, as the gallows are aglow.

Barbarians, you’d better self-assess your civility index.
Russell Crowe’s tenderness can bruise a Leviathan,
busted lip on Deep Star Six, nailed Mer-Man to a crucifix.

I’ve never met an intangible who took a dart to the
New Mexico of the anatomy and screamed muchos gracias,
muzzled for Salma Hayek’s pleasure, stroking fantasy of Cheshire.

I set the lure for the Lost Kowalski of detached mechanism
who may dine on hot fudge sundae missionary blitzkrieg
during his rendezvous with the Bride of Match.com.
His Lord Inchworm is no longer than the lifespan of John Doe.
Hey, cupid-cum-astronaut – your spaceflight manual has
nudity and espionage. The trouble is…one lifejacket.

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