Ew, gross, but I can't stop
a poem, a splash,
Alope, to dream, a fantasy.
With my eyes shut I cannot see.
So simple shows finesse they say
Maturity, but come what may,
these are for me,
Of course, you think,
Of people as the letters slink
from ink to white,
metal to tree
ball to line
and thought from me.
The thoughts subside,
What's left is art
or something from which art may start.
It's comical, I guess from beat
but not the good, i guess repeat
until the meaning is devised
of course you will become suprised
as you create the relevance
based on your own developements
but you're one with omnipotence
and have to, thrifty, spend tuppence
and want to spend.
And so the art - it seems to me
Is not to show something pretty
Craftwork usury infinite mystery,
Simply, the inspiration's it.
Like passing flame,
For you, be lit.