Poetaster, Revo1 (short for Revolution One Love!), with over an hour of spoken word prose for your listening disaster, dares you to attempt to struggle through
Yo, I'm the number sixty,
or at least I'm founded upon.
Sexagesimal hit the lottery decimal.
Tickle me nympho.
Simple arithmetical.
I'm extra cognitive
with this red wrap
that left Rembrandt on the right track.
Yet I'm oval equal nomitry
ego less than dephonically
lettered by the rose leaf
bled to speak these parables.
Call me the red dawn king.
I'm just hypothetically
cadenced to break physics to peace.
I'm the alpha betical
Louie botanical soup
luxury from aye to zink.
So peace less
and rounded by the peach
that broke the apple tree.
The giant blue ball
point devil that slept on the ink
from the canvas that left the paper.
Taper up the tadpoal feathers.
Favor up, and bottom out the drink
that left you asleep.
Cry me the Riviera dream.
I'm more American than you think.
I hope you noticed
when I gave that last wink, girl.
I'm Mr. Super Terrible.
But you can call me Terrible
short for sweet, darlin'.
Cos' in my peace
I get the saw out and cut beef.
I'll read your diaphragm, baby,
and count the back of your hand
for every line
that you're lying to sleep with me, girl.
But you cop no sheep.
This ain't no wool drizzled
full tempered treat.
My chocolate isn't devilry.
I'm more than velvety
on the inside.
I rite my way both on line and off line.
My handshake is more than pork grinds
and tether leaks.
I'm highly hypodecimal.
But tell me am I worth it?
The Riviera's shore to preach.
But, me, I'm lost in the coastline
counting skipped stones to sixty.
