You disgust me to find effective yield,
To put to death and wipe the lens.
Yet you infantile,
You self-fulfilling prophecy,
...
The awkward yellow glances of a beat poet,
Voracious.
The trickle of a Solitary Man,
...
Iv
You disgust me to find effective yield,
To put to death and wipe the lens.
Yet you infantile,
You self-fulfilling prophecy,
I may too much, too deep in your eyes,
But can they hold your weight?
Will honor rule?
Unfortunately I foresee no.