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Scrannel Sometimes words of honeyScrannel by ~pseudokojo
And at others, those of pitch.
A cold trickle of water,
Or perhaps a rotten abrasion.
Words themselves remain impartial.
Only the candy-coating conveys
The undercurrent.
So that meaning can still be found
In the baying of my rasping throat.
Even when the flow comes jagged
As it does in this faltering poem.
Ween We've had it wrong for years,Ween by ~pseudokojo
and we should never have
Forced so many children
Into the cold realms
Of philosophy.
Such tiny hands
Only really ever produce
Sophistry and Solipsisms.
Worthless.
Sweven Umm, excuse me?Sweven by ~pseudokojo
I am way too waspy for this.
Boiled potatoes, stewed beef.
That is more me.
I find your headdress tacky and
Outmoded. It reminds me
Too much of smallpox blankets.
And anyway, shouldn't I be seeing
Wings and clouds and Jesus?
This is the third impertinent perversion
Of God's number, you know.
(The first being Lucky Number Sleven,
The second being the name Steven.)
You should just let me sleep.
Point-Device It demurely shakes off the paleo-dust,Point-Device by ~pseudokojo
A little callipygian, verbal beast.
A coquette of syllable recognition,
And some long interred desire.
A fire I'd grown inured against.
Some arcane tongue sprung up
Between the cracks in our modern language.
It matches a need I have, quite point-device,
Rolling ball, blank ink, point: extra fine.
Come here, little darling.
I won't lose you again.
But the world sees only your awkward corners.
Come home with me,
And let me run your hyphen across my lips.
Never be alone again, until I die.
Neutral 
on my London Pixel Scene, Much appreciated 
Sta.sh
..it's really appreciated. Thanks too for the FAV
