I want to write chaotic compulsion and thriving and failing and never understanding.

We are taught so many tensions; which to observe?

I occcasionally delete all my titles, thinking them pretending or pretentious; it feels like a poem.

The cook’s veggie is the botanist’s fruit is the dryasdust’s berry and the pithy provocateur is pretending error in anglicised Latinate backformation.

It was a power she’d forgotten. He swore it true, forgetting his posture: Cicero’s conduit, only better on reflection.

I understood her as the Pisano did the grape. I should’ve as the Assesiano let the birds.

A life's sensible zenith defending pompadours and Al Capone, you syphilitic bastard.

The clock continues its cackle with pugilistic disdain.

Oh, to be him, the one enraptured by his own, so profoundly inept.

I was asked Mengele, I chose Smee.