Truths Or

I tire of this and that
and go attired in flat
old Dunlops loping right
across the moon at night
to knock up Desiree
who’s out of lingerie
and she says into books
rekindling iPad Nooks
with classic acid prose
that could be verse suppose
she drops her closing lines
and gets sent to the mines.
She reads a little Proust,
I say Marcel’s a hoot.
I put on Paul the Beetle
in hopes his songs will wheedle
a paragraph or two
of future déjà vue.

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