He moved his well bearded mouth near the musky, spittle en-dewed microphone. “The words” he begins. “The words are the voices that fill my head. They shout like little demons, they whisper, my penitent angels.” His quiet demeanor slowly shifted, his eyes widened, and his voice transformed into the howling, bellowing tempest. After he has segued through the rising tide of his poem, into the bridge, down through the low simmering last lines of regret and soft sorrow, then it finally registered that there was an intrusion, from the back row. “Hey! Hey! Man, turn on the microphone!”
Who has been using my name to pen stories. Very silly stuff. I do not appreciate being used as a tool of mockery. Poetry is very serious, and the serious artist would not mock, or purport to be an artist. Please take this piece of drivel down or I shall have to establish a counter-insurgency to put an end to your silliness.
Mr. Kensington. I don’t doubt your name is also Phineas Kensington, however, the artist who has been represneted here claims propriety of his own identity. If there is further questions about identity, you muct wrangle those differences out with Mr. Kensington. The VVVSS is a very casual blog and is not a source of either income or acclaim for its authors. So, get over it.