Rancid Astrophil 12

And yet they never seem to hit home quite
These relics of a foregone conclusion
The sonneteer's last mindless diffusion
Do carry not respot's only first respite

Love poetry's only words dance on paint
When there is no page but foul odours pounce
On blogspot we write but shoot for an ounce
Of Celtic spirit ouisce beatha saint

To look upon that fair rancid Stella
Feeling noxious in sight of fair bella
Let go the dogs of war and loose your heart
Dream not young faggot of lovers' failed start 

Broken crown not the knot of destiny
My 苏州 sweetheart responded to me....

Rancid Astrophil 11

Whisked away when to 苏州 I did find
That she had fleeting interest in me
I would be jilted never loving me
Slying window prying masterless mind

I looking not on the cabinet hutch
Had perhaps missed genteel man's opportune
Moment when in silver spied copper moon
I paid in dutch, and left it so, and such

Perhaps then 苏州 is not for me one
To take to task lonely lullaby fun
Once and for all I would have known nothing
Except that I know not which I don't know

Know thyself -- always the maximum words
And yet they never seem to hit home quite

Rancid Astrophil 10

Marks my demeanor with spring time season
And oh -- what a spring time season it's been
Thoroughly my dating apps full of win
Curiousness then exciting reason

Befell me with unexpected surmise
A fire in one's eye, so did I swipe right
Her cuteness prevailed, and matched my delight
When a tinder flame turned tinder surprise

A match made rematch, to match make a friend
A blind date perspective excited me
It might go, quite well, or oh so badly
Curiousness won, and so to surrend

Any disbelief made by my own mind
Whisked away when to 苏州 I did find

Rancid Astrophil 9

But he knows it won't be like yesterday
Which is the name of a poem he wrote
A rhyme of memory rote wills to float
In her somberness of ways and the way

Sweet 苏州 lost from my grasp to fancy
Electric her so presence makes me feel
Spiritless in divinity's eyes, steel
No holds barred in love's lost necromancy

I know her not, but she is not least known
To my world's liaison is fancy thrown
Cross windswept alleys in spiteful treason
O'er valleys of delightfulest reason

Adjectival neologism's bone
Marks my demeanor with spring time season

On Epic

This poem is just a jumble of thoughts expressed
in passing