Seriously, I forgot what I titled this poem. Memory pending. Edit: "My Position."

What is repetition if not

an unnecessary submission

to rhyming by attrition?

Attrition if not just

a lack of ambition?

Ambition if not the

lack of tradition?

Tradition is then but

the repetition of a lack

of one’s own volition.

Sex Toy

There once was a maimed sheep.
Deep in the herd he stood.
There was a hungry wolf.
Deep in the woods he sat.
The two meandered, met.
There then was not much sheep.
There was a confused man.
"Aliens mutilate!"

Practicality

My sweet nothings, nothing could be as sweet,
or perhaps, if you wish, nothing so deep.
And then, if you desire, I'll devote
a metaphor or four, or maybe more,
to your description, the ascription of
lines of nothing but the most divine.
This is, of course, assuming that you can
reciprocate in kind with lines so as
to justify the hopefully worthwhile
hassle of writing down a ten line lie.

Candle

Candle, candle, burning bright,
on my desk, near Twilight.
May your flame, may it light, these thin pages,
through the night.

You distract from what I write,
and deny sleep at night.
All I pay attention to are sparks of
your red light.

You'll reflect upon the wall,
past my head, your light falls.
My sole source of nightly light, you go out,
I'll relight.

Like a tiger, you'll flick red,
on a tray, 'side my bed.
You'll flick orange, you'll flick blue, put you out,
oh, I might.

Then I'll do the deed and play
with your wax, day by day,
you will sear my skin again, oh, what play,
what delight.