Monét says,
If I’d read them these poems, they’d still be around.
If I broke down and wrote ‘em, I could build a house.
Watch it tumble down, foundational drought.
Must be grout, scrapping trays for clout.
Sussie did a tribute.
Meet me where I am, I’ll reciprocate. Nay.
Elven aim for the bar. Bet he hesitates.
Notes trail off in the dark, there’s no knight I can’t
defeat.
Decent files of recent smiles, full of infantile
speech.
Pretty sure it’s a lure, irresolute men lose her.
Ingot crust, useless. Lackluster, no mallet.
Native to the phallic thought’s of recreating magick
Knead with pollen, Beseech thy contemplations
Simple and wandless. For her truth, I’m still waiting.
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SagethePoet
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The Devil's Cut
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