Shrimp Festival Beats Poem by chris bowen

the leaving of city bus, the step, left the head, a thought, me not, the bought oil painting, in the heat im fainting.the lane thing, dont exist, me, i kissed, a wrist.i fist the dissed.the mist is tall, the medium small, in me, i love usually.the fee is free.shrimp festival be.the only, sad only the dot in the sky makes a pot of clay.no rain today in some special way.i want to be ok to enjoy the employ of the city, girl so pretty, be miss kitty mitchel or reagon carver.me know the heart of them? no.i suppose i make it up but the city it bakes it up, a cake, for goodness sake, for the shrimp too late, caught and bought, then eaten, in the middle of the streets and, in the middle of the beats.