Poetry People - Conversation on Poets

Hi and hello, as well as be gone. it's a new fad, this life, but sounds like the same engine. Less roar, more torque; a gentle hum.  Should it be wingdings, then it'd make perfect sense.  But what is and what isn't

is a difficult subject.  One subject I'm quite fond of is phallacy, or phallic whips.  The proof is in the pudding my lad and you can grab my tapioca anytime baby.  I see it taking new shapes, new forms, new eyes, new ears.  Ever look at a nipple under the microscope?  That's how it should be.  Wait.  I take that back.  It should be more like something else. Wait. I take that back...who was I influenced by?  Wait.  I take that back.  Did history become the dictator? Wait.  Actually, take that.  You copy righters with your copy written history.  I'll dare say Shakespeare was a joke, and Philip Larkin is the iris that let his skirt down to soon.  I'm not afraid of you.   The key is to be our self.  Psh.  Let the air out of those lungs.  Smile.  Divorce me.  Whip me, beat me, punch me, but God almighty, you best not forget me. 

Said poetry to the whipper-snapper-turtle soup eater, magic muffin rider, pogostick.

They provide forks in the road, but no plates, must be the silver they wear.  Hold on, I'm pulling something out of my skull...hmm...yes...it appears to be the cosmos, wait...nope...false alarm, it was my two cents, as well as as a thousand other pennies I'd like to exchange for different change.  Money talks and we need a translator.  O Glorious Ishtar!  Where have all the words gone?  Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.  Okay enough rambling.  This is serious buisness, this resuscitation.  Poetry choking on a chicken bone.  Poetry choking his chicken. Poetry chocking bones on a chicken.  Maybe twice.  Actually, I did it three time today.

My God.  What are you really saving?  Honestly?

R.I.P.  Unicorn.