This pasted garbage sings to Stoli -- cold
Martinis rendering this composition
A little incoherent; I feel old
When contemplating my contrived position --
A 1995 momento breaks;
A 1985 memorial sings;
Between the two of them, I sense the stakes
Are high: nostalgia's dust, the little things
That trip syadvada, registers a truth:
Mere sonnets clog the blogging avenue,
A metric superhighway that, in youth,
I plunged my way beneath. I never knew
That oxygen is verse, and drowning from
Two-minute dives eclipses "zero-sum."
1 comment:
A bit inebriated.
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