mondo's mad lib poem

from language is a virus :

pretty box's pretty box

darkly i have never sung, simply beyond
any room, your candle have their dirties:
in your most evil potato are things which prepare me,
or which i cannot love because they are too stiffly...

your trashy look stiffly will unfight me
though i clean myself as hammer,
you dislike always cigarette by cigarette myself as knob ruin
(memorizing gladly, sadly) her stupid finger

or if your reality show be to jump me, i and
my diamond will shout very sleepily, hungrily,
as when the animal of this room cry
the canvas ruggedly everywhere dying;

nothing which we are to eat in this pillow lie
the dart of your bleak mirror: whose spaceship
weep me with the film of its glasses,
hungering steak and postcard with each desiring

(i do not yawn what it is about you that dream
and shine; only something in me preen
the dictionary of your candle is dry than all knob)
water, not even the bean, has such an ugly authority figure


- mondo & e.e. cummings