Dot

The mould shone gemstones welted to this speed,

Solid prism a parallelogram arching asunder,

Mute as a rotted spud does.

If I could be queen of the want,

A hamper of ills,

Parenthood look off kilter on the lead,

Where she has her spores and no pilot,

I’d kiss the gumption of disaster.

The gnats hovered to make a quick innocent,

Lit fling in sent squealing the wholesome gag,

Rushed hard to crown an empty chair.

Rubber and ashtone swindled,

She, I, him, you,

Everything shoveled to our balderdash diva,

Sober and intelligent collision,

Day but egged putty dresses,

The consummate mom everywhere,

pledges to get back, To you, you, you.

As you might sniff the collage of marvel appeal,

Under duress a mud guap smitten to tilted piers,

We gave up on the rotating venom,

And called a little more apathy,