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Slay Your Hands On Me

What do you call an “incel”-masseuse? A massage-ynist. Cue the tumbleweed.

Just imagine how bad the joke I cut was. 🙂

Long is the amount of time since last we spoke. An unfortunate downside to finally achieving some semblance of physical health is a diminished opportunity to waste your time. Don’t worry, I’m certain to be run down by a wayward rickshaw or suffer some other similar cosmic seeming reversal soon. That’s just my style, baby.

Today’s poem seems fit for a children’s picture book. Perhaps a card of some sort given its extreme brevity. Picture something like two cartoon puppy best friends. Maybe a bumper sticker.


“Is Caring”, November 6, 2018

Alas there weren’t two

But I was not blue

For it meant the chance

To share with you.


For the record I do have several longer and more intricate works on the go. Pieces you might actually be able to refer to as “works” for instance. Hopefully I’ll have a moment to further encumber you with said aforementioned wor(d/k)s soon.
Be Fabulous! *Finger snaps*
For the record I didn’t intend to capitalize, “Fabulous”, but it seems wrong to correct now.
Happy Trails and Waggy Tales, y’all!
Alex Blaikie

Categories: poetry writing

Tagged as:

dreadpoetssobriety

A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.

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