I wear a necklace of sycophantic jewels,
something akin to pearls, or opals, vapid,
My shoes are sycophantically noisy, the
swish, swivel, growl they make mocks me.
Romanticism rocks me in the arms of a sycophant
lover. Keeps me baying at an artificial tree line
of minty graphite and neon.
My sycophantic tongue reeks of rosemary, and
when you suck it, it leaves you suffering for
less of more of me.
It leaves you with those stones-
those veined opals sunken in your stomach
like a lively ocean, salt drunken, mind
mish-mashed as though my thought process
had already taken the razor to your notion
of nonchalant punishment.
Your grin breaks me
like a pair of sycophantic scissors,
your conversation hardly makes me fawn,
merely lets me yawn steadily under the
umbrella yoke of your sycophantic gimmick.
I'm a meandering beatnik,
to your level-headed critic.