In other words
I might be unfold more easily.
I might not have been so, so,
Un pitched and open, so raw.
But I have not been
Folded as in Origami.
Though paper is involved,
This is simply me,
Unfolding through thought.
I wanted this time
To be flat or even, even.

I am mouth washed
In my ordinary life.
As wet as my whistle needs to be.
I kettle through time
Gaining pressure and straining.
I often have to turn
My heat down for myself.
This, to avoid boiling over.

I carbon copy myself
With my own bare hands.
I often spill myself too.
I am like a random glitch.
An un-uniform functionary,
A sort of unofficial error.

True, I breathe biologically,
And I can be convincing.
Though I usually speak my words
As verbose confetti,
And I tend to concrete my meaning as if in tongues.
I was schooled and engineered
To deliver a dog-rail performance.
To me thus, this all comes easily.

It is on ink sprayed paper,
I weave best, that is where
My mantle is achieved.
I always appear laminar,
As myself and as to myself.
My gift is my challenge.
My challenge to you
Is this gift.
Now read my lips,
As petals or perhaps lettering.
I will offer you others
And my hope is that
Your joy lies in their opening.
Be it by the touch of a whisper
Or as a flash from a Nova.
So in some way it combines
As an enrichment.

From dimension one my offer is plain.

Christopher Thompson
May 19th 2017.
As Poets have no skill.
Their Art lies only within the crafting.
(A skill being:- A learned ability to achieve a predetermined outcome).


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