Egotistic eccentric things like this…

Poetry is my one passion—my one love
But, what do’ I forgo’
What infernal fires glow?
In this life there—of’
What other things, what of’
“Do I not understanding know?
Just look—around”
“There is no—anything left of me when I go’
There is only the one, furrowed, dredge.
Broken, drainpipes, spillage”
“There is no learned scholar
There is only this sad, substance”.
In a peach bowl of lust; that’s me.
Just this one thing, I'd call—me.
O’ on that dear loved one! Can we, agree?
That the worms will, eat both of us;
Settle all our diminishing, arguments
Into a substance; known, to all of us. as dust”.
There is no me, structurally, really,
But poetry, and paper mites!
And cyber computer bites
“With a rhyme without a metre
A metre without a rhyme
A fruit without a pit
An olive without a stone
Left un-crushed; by loves bitter sweet oils”.
What; flesh do I have to offer?
Just my blood snot and piss…
That’s what’s on offer
That’s what often goes into egotistic
Eccentric things like this.