Today I thought it would be fun to revisit a few vintage poems I wrote in college at Central Michigan University twenty years ago.
I am particularly oppressed by remnants bestowed upon a genius at any particular setting, endowed to the latest trend of a pillar between the irregular bridge transcending the best of everything, sacred to a fabled few, ingested by mass conformant’s, diligently reclusive and open to a pious over tuned disappearing sort of facade. Drunk of the populous, under the rug, sort of baring an open wound that receives too much air but runs enough to die in the pockets of a youthful drug. Escorted by an amphibious wail that cries in our minds, rewarding no tale or ambiguous ten, which is at least not best. Tell your friends, the head that radiates just under your expectations, his space is not for me, cause wound around the core of energy is one shooting out stars with rubber bands and the strain on your hands.
Francis Erich McElroy 