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matthew harris

If you don't learn to write your own story, someone else will write it for you

54 poems·Since March 2016

Brief Bio:Hi (Matthew Scott Harris - berthed January xiii, circa mcmlix). Hi yam juiced dime a dozen penniless bitcoin (a chip off the ole blockchain) branching off the tree men dous skeined wide whirled webbing courtesy aye push (apish) predecessors humanity. Aye got pro pence city to ply (close on par with Wordsworth wandering willy shake his spear), their weight in gold, and thus as a scribe take to the most vibrant media platform these days (electronic soapbox) to express most bothersome doggone fiendish harmful jerk, lobbing nuggets packed resplendently, tightly unfashionably vested with yik yak animal clout. Tis like a stormy field day (tour wren NATO), asper communicating, expressing, gut heaving input. Tinder days of yore sparked psychological conflagration kindle ling outlook per questionable rite Trump violated with yipping brigands doing dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Though unknown to thee twittering, reading public and chattering class, this totally tubular thought provoking meister jabberwocky houses full deshabille attire invoking an automatic repulsion if aiming to affect "FAKE" couture of nouveau riche. No ambition to clothe thyself in the latest craze, fashions, gizmos, kool leaning trends always found this middle aged, monkey's peanut size uncle (a Lioness Paul lean), mwm to be an outlier. Early years of mine kempf fraught with emotional, physical and spiritual angst, when forced thru the gauntlet thrown up by one eyed punks with jagged lightning bolt designed scars. They (the madding crowds of foo fighting beastie boys) throve on being mean, and stepped up the propensity of bullying, especially since this presently grown man evinced (as a pipsqueak), an extremely cowering, frowning, identity guard.

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A brushstroke choreographing dramatic elegy framing harmonic gavotte

June 13, 2024

specified such so as to issue a rhyme,

but proceeded as this scribe

didst git linkedin with the cutting crew,
mow or less feeling grassy us,
yet not the least whirlwind will offset
my b52 coiffed Hair style,

or hirsute shellacked beehive type do
the idler wheel is wiser than the driver

of the screw and whipping cords

will serve you more than ropes will ever do.
 

No matter from what literary website,
an unsuspecting reader will accidentally
stumble upon a ewe
fo' mystic impression

wilt shame burr lean ache
shift shape about myself

some accurate ledge
gin dairy cowed horsesense

about me will ensue,

especially if I sheepishly admitted,

this beastie back street

 

boyz to men iz a genuine foo

fighter toward this former
stone temple pilot, wildly whizzing,

gurgling in age inappropriate burbling,

dribbling, flickr ring for a goo goo

doll to dare buffer end me,

hub bee of piggish,

ham handed, bay kin a poetic slop hoo

might at this juncture
succinctly cease reading

 

prior to putting

finishing touches on ma igloo,

when the remaining

portion of this dippy goofy,
slippery when whet,

trippy treacle G.I. Jew,

who would, more aptly

coon sitter himself hub

horn hug ken atheist, boot knew

not a whit about Judaism,

 

nor any other belief paradigm,

yet does get fixated

(usually in the loo)

about philosophical ideas,

which yet to be revealed

abstract notion came to me

while enjoying a plateful of moo

goo gai pan, plus other Chinese food
(a favorite cuisine),

now aye will try to new

 

dill back to the initial pretext

found me drawing blanks

(no not shooting) – ooh
aah, this theme

within guttersnipe noggin
more difficult to codify
than one who whiz

constipated and try'n might
damn hard tip poo

anyway, the general premise


alighted, and fired

mine gray matter cause
major cerebrum perilous jam up
with sudden crackling

star bursts forced
great mind over matter

to set brainy bedlam

in an organized queue

so while attention of yours

might be moderately rapt, this rue

 

stirring, hen pecked spouse

best stop digitally squawking sew

the ethereal essence can beak coxcomb

brought to cypher awareness too

and in a figurative nutshell,

when doth a wordsmith

know when to quit,

or tubby pointed rhetorical question -

at what juncture does any artisan

more prolific than yours truly

 

reckon that his/her

faux matted masterpiece

can no longer be perfected?,

cuz further ridiculous tampering,

to Potschke, or play footsie,

would induce dedicated followers of mine

to undergo severe urge to wanna spit

or throw FAKE nipples,

subsequently they would feel tit

till late head, find this schlemiel

to end this plotz to whit!

 

FINIS.

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