The wicked solipsis
The tiny cortex or littler brick or however we
lisp upon such things in our very limited brains,
mighty us, might limit. The matters of all being
swimming unto yet again a mite paranoid feeling,
and the algebra of calendars won’t permit
our tongues an adequate counting for uncounted days.
Here is my analogy: blink, then brink a white eye,
then meet an evil mirror from three hundred and three
years ago, bellowing at a commonality
that spoke of all sincerity of selfishness, and mys,
and, pleasing me, bear your ass, the sweet denomination,
at all the portraitures that ever were more appreciated.
White faced and blue eyed and red poxed as I.