wasting
away in huge food and
diet exercise, I
gotta believe no way. These
are my thirty-sixes. NO
NEED to run a check
on that - what is the
POINT, otherwise of
having two identical
(-otherwise) pairs of beautiful soft
faded cadet blue (almost gray, no
, grey to your eyes) shorts?
please
no, please no "waistline"
-centric vanity way
way this late in the
way, phase, stage
game
no-game, if so.
Not after a lifetime of
eschew to the point
such metrics are
and have been
always
wholly alien
to you!
you
gallant scoundrel
A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.
but aren't they all random?
Wednesday, January 03, 2024
my thirty-fours
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1 comment:
In this poem, see how the author raises self-critical body shame-based reverse-deprecation humblebrag from an art form to a point of coherency, specifically, "IN-"
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