Without Fear or Favour

Elephants in my room,
united in ruminations,

sit on the seat of my
intuition. Star-g(r)azing, they’re

saying my raw heart tastes
like the bawdy parts bad taste plays

in heavy rotation.
A t(r)ough of cities laid before

them—warm lay-overs left
on their tongues—reek of really bad

vacations. Without fear
or favour, they make connections

between my life’s station
and how I rock so hard an ill-

p(l)aced reputation. They’ll
crowd me ’til my fundamentals

sit well with their theory
of me, and stay ’til I hear the

zen sound of one hand-job
fapping—the “Boo!”-This mantra Men-

Who-Think-They-Can-Write keep
rapping. You asses, keep tapping.