In Search of the Sleazy Apothegm

I’ve become a match for

the latch on a door.

I thought I wanted more

of every bit of thing nonstop

to stop by, drop in, pop on

over. And they did.

They were no bed of clover.

I hid when they had

eaten all my raisins

and my reason and got

bored with the unfeasible,

unseasonable sleaze

of my proclivities and slid

back out the door.

Now each last dotted i,

crossed t in them has lost

its appetite for me,

and I have lost

my aptitude for every little

idiotic bitty flitty it in them.

Now I require

a perfect single essence

to inspire condensation:

deflate the bloviation,

mutate to apothegm.

I’m on a diet.

It’s very quiet. I recall

how much I like it

loud, and how I love

a sweaty crowd.

Been so long

since I have bowed

to great applause.

Gives the poet in me pause.

Gives the sleazy actor claws.

.