Post-Stroke my words are not over-
ly obvious. Why on earth should my
non overly obvious poetry be dead?

1. Telebloodied brain cadaver with pernicious red limp.
2. Telebloodied drain dagger with growing open limbs.

3. My carotid swirling, awaited a dangerous blow torch
from the crotch; clicked in, rose up, added platinum mesh
deep inside my odd head. In spite of my almost annihilation.

4. A vicious new voice will slowly seep out of my skull.
5. Will spill more pretty crooked plucked out wordage.