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I hesitate to clop for fear of being labeled a flop, but I actually understand this. Like I do psychedelia lyrics. I definitely can float along in the steam. Coherent in a drunken sort of way.
Maybe this works best as a prose poem:
[i]However, starting in the middle has whatever the child has that has its own. My thoughts can twist themselves into a knot of tangled skeins and other nasties grown out of proportion into freakishness — has got me starting to freak out — a lot. The electrical current sings accompanying jazz. Oh, goodness — really? Now it's quite the mess.
Aim for the silence at the heart of chaos of children chewing on their plastic forks, a cartoon tattoo nude across his chest. Whatever floats your boat, whatever works. When I want horse with some force, I want a Clydesdale!
But after all this work, will no one pay us? Rhyming and chiming, spinning on a dime — no whispered clue to lead, no line to rhyme?
On second thought... Nah...
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Last edited by Jim Moonan; 08-27-2018 at 12:03 PM.
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