A Fool, wreath of barbs, Writing of films' stars, Barns, and what lies beyond; Tools for reaching disembarkments, A cool way to clean her clock, A gun, put into a mouth, Entire crowd in shock; His cigar takes tocks, Ticks boxes and lives onward. He rewrites his ducks: swans, Cooks his brownies blonde, Looks at his frowning fawn, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Like drowning frogs, A fearless John. When he writes of life, It's to a howling mob, Sexy songs, luck gaunt, One of us, One of us, One of us, Eteonicus lives, reeds or not.
She lays, sunbathing, Awake in the sunset, Placed as an epithet, Following but shadow, Celebrity malleable. Sequence engaged, tomorrow; Letter sent too late, Bed slept in layman, Words dear borrowed, But a fool too vague. Sheets in disarray, One saves time folding, Sleeping on top. One who faces the cold, Has no reason for folio, Numbering hardships for foals, Galloping into the distance, Their grandeur taught.
He writes fights, such sadness, Insult poetry, of life invalid, Views fantastic, mantelpieces. Cameras and angles fandangled, Manic as the fan they turn. Misunderstandable, as most magic. Penned plans turn older, forever, Less recognizable, less clever, Done before.