It's 3: 42am. I haven't seen the light of dark, nor 47 of the 50 placid unicorns holding the 7 books of the 7 gates of slumber.
by Jeremy May
Let my pants be loose and my brain as a sift. As I write a writ on the thorax of a lisp. Digger and dug, a rice colored rug. No sheep will be sleeping as we will be counting. No dips will be dipping while our lips they are dripping. Hand on the cool and head on the hot. Let no man, no ma'am ever rest on the clock.