The Kid's Lost

(the kid's) not eating pasta tyranny
he makes armoires crumble to the ground
themselves, turns over all tins and laughs
in search of two lost shiny things
they are not marbles, the kids look for
nor do they resemble some spice

it's like breakfast without milk
a dance of two minus the eating
after droppings of clothes and a fuck

no one's missing their shoes
they just can't be like those (lost) things
that resemble rough swift alcohol rubbings

turn over, will you(?) party and set a rally
point to your germs and the soiled
cake slowly crusting out of your bush
crumbles: spell without letters
take it whole and eat it like pasta

but never eat the meatball that fell and you
just abruptly picked up and blew some dust off

no father telling you, stop that mess
else you will not (be) bought a toy

and three cartridges of your games
will have to be set (hidden) again
there are two ways for this to work:
One, you will create waves the latin shall
understand: there's a king
two young boys really purely love

his name does not mark resemblance
all the queens have sucked his toe
thumbs, ringed nipples, brown
skin and his pale tongue (like sore)

everybody must have done it, the envy
(and) wanting of the sterling king's life

but he's not a son, much less a whore
To (hold) or don (on) his chest those badges of wins

A Bad Poetry Program That's Read Robert Frost's Story And Tries To Write An Ode To A Tin And Obama's Win

In the house all one has are crushed things
Like leaves and sad soil and in streets women take
A treading we've to make two miles a day
And only a cat frolicking can give a pause to: blue-
Velvet couch, you're so comfortably on; hers:
The long stretched damp gravel; she goes nowhere-
I wear an eye to see a nowhereness* of some kind
That is vivid. The eyes talkative. Flocks of pilgrims aim
Arrows at its grave but it's still to make a deliver despite
Wool scrapings and branches picked out from trees
The heights of me. In it maybe a piece of rye cookie.
My sling's got nothing but cloth. Even if it's dawn
Her trying to make sense's full like an unopened can

*This is that. They are their
Reason my conjunctive must be blurred.
Cup of rice, hair plucked out from a human leg,
Armed kindred: I will fold over this paper
And fan about your head. There is nothing here
We will hold dear. Fix the eyes and this very
Atmosphere you'll see but leave behind
When things of this degree give you a sign
That we'd uproot that that they'll recruit
With the seven simple codes the skin needs
To reboot a black democracy although, doubtful, surely,
There'd still be much better ways to shun the free.