| Parochial Poetry whiter I make it when walking right in unswerved, sweating fluorescent bleach, preaching a moon page that says its welts: learn this by heart is empty but do it to do it. I make it somehow whiter, zombied and I opified allover the absolutely whitest room. I say keep your lines in line and look at me now just lining them, some flogged orthodoxen, ploughed down sillion shiny sacerdotal lines I'm supposed to like and looky I do. I like what I like. I just like what I like. I like to say look: dissident anachronistics, shambolic stuff in master rows but look at me. I even early balded to enhance the interrogation. I meander in and form more order. I like to point with my pointer, to indicate. The most afraid I like to get is a little bit. I app my accounts and survey the advantage. I tower under. I oxiclean the ivory. I shower and shower. I dig on fonts. I wake up singing I say never start with that but one morning I wake up singing the Fat Boys. I wikipede The Fat Boys. One of them is no longer. The other is no longer fat. I assess the Human beatbox via a Schwittersian optic. I exercise my massive rights. I have the right to remain. I remain. I interview just like a glacier. I hand dance. I like just what I like. My skin is white not. It fits just tight. It burns on will. My horizon is fungible. My will is like whatever. My SPF is infinity. People seem to like me. I was just born just this way. | |
| Copyright © 2012 by Ben Doller. Used with permission of the author. |
Poetry by Doller Dead Ahead
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