Shouldn't say so.

Shouldn’t stop to think
it’s the thinking ink that
messages the Thursday drink.
Trinket mourns to odd porn,
Pawned and owned.
Misnomer was the something
with the some-thought
that sung to the same fraught prose.
From same fraught prose
to a missing links’ pose;
we’re all tortured souls
in fishing fish bowls.
Brown soot and torn flesh
A finicky pinky missing mess
In the thumb under your balls,
inside your ass
And upside your face.
Your mink. Your mink prose.
That’s what it’s all about, right?
Mink prose?
And suburban gardens
Where greenbelts rose
And roses sung like beauties
in a farside dance, romance.
We’re romantic, bromantic
And total messes of human beings.
Not just one of us, but all of us:
we all have sometime terrible to say
about a netherworld in which we live;
About the neighborworld in which we live.
Sad Sundays and sought porkpies
The mess of mincemeat that sides beef.
Bread that neither begins nor ends with a bite.
You’re the sickest, saddest person I know
and that’s, that’s why I love you love you love you
so.