Weak Stream Strong Flow

I'm going nuts

like hermits in huts

busting my nuts

into good women and $**ts

and toilet tissue

such is the compass of my rut

pointing onward to issues

don't dissipate

I anticipate

what I'm about to create

I mix in with a pint of hate

a quart of steamed pain on the plate

A pinch of rich prunes and a date

flesh of fruit

mesh it by mashing in a starched suit

add a parched horn toot

though, barely, it sounds fiercly,

that ingredient isn't moot 

muzzling scarcely, seriously

dry throat, itchy hope, scratching

rope snatching, bashing, thrashing

among the water of inasanity

I am going nuts without much calamity

can it be humanity stammering amiably

can it be vanity handily cramming strands

of burning sands, wrinkles, toilet water tinkles

weak streams strong flows

sick dreams long lows

picked clean along with goals

ticked angry, clocks tick on my souls

mine and my life long loves, yeah those

souls, covering, protecting, residing,

present while seemingly hiding

romance took my pants

and danced me into a fighting stance

a quick, bereft of sight, kind of glance

please come back, call back, don't go, I feel enhanced.

The End

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