my internal thermometer
tells me what
i cherish you
you make me feel hot
i think about
my hot wee thing
my cool whip
she’s very hip
she gives me cheek
and also lip
i fear at work
i’m due a pip
a good soul would distrib
a little pink
permission slip
i’ve been told
and still don’t know
but folk do scold
it’s tech no
this is the trilogy of four to the floor
for once let’s do
less with more
if ai is so great
then it must find a way
to give us more money
and holidays
the middle post of the month gets a chorus, because, if it isn’t clear, this is all one very long poem about the lives, internal and external, of a fictional poet.
