This Is Not A Level Playing Field Poem by Christopher J. Grasso

Your “Fevered Poem” splits my throat
Crunching into stripped out vocal chords
As punishment of uttering these chants to sound

Hear these refrains bubbling out in a gurgled outpour
In panic-stricken blood smearing on paper once more and again
A torrent in red sired, fall every sickly line by a mucked pulpy device

Convey in a mantra of the ill-advised
In bleeding lines of description, prepositions
which you struggle to speak in a language never before spoken

The dead lingos of the unknown
Reaching out & upward drowning in its own puddle
of meritocracy.