she starts off with, you can’t cry, real men don’t cry, you have to be sahara, which means: it’s my party and i wanna cry, it’s my party and you’re going be the dried-out potato for my party on a shoulder. ***** i don’t want to catch clinical depression, i’ll cry at all of it as much as i want, because it’s beautiful and i’m not army material to break down at seeing torn bits and a solider’s ‘mama mama mama!’ spice girls have a song, metallica too, what’s the length of the the border between germany and switzerland? roughly that of belgium and the netherlands.

but any man can sing sha shtil -
makh nicht keyn gerider
der rebe tantsnt und tancen vider
sha! shtil! makh nicht keyn gevald
der rebe tanz und tanz gevald
un ven der rebe tanz* -
but so few with the orchestra of rain
and starlings to accompany him -
and so fewer with a husky voice sounding
softer and therefore purer -
or reading an abhorring article of a book
review about ex-servicemen
and reminding oneself of walking into
a world war i memorial
picking up a cemetery cross from an ikea storage room
of graves, putting it on the shoulder,
walking with it, and as unlikely as any man
putting it against the fluttering ponce of the poppy wreath
where the celebratory spectacle of grievances takes
place for society, against the current,
taking up a stone cross from the graveyard
and with a rock-hard slam putting it over
the fake poppy guilt by the monastery of conceit
in order... not to look politically correct... but to prove a ******* point.
but then the article is erased by ezra’s canto xxii read aloud
to the fondness of giggles and stomachs in stitches of gleed pain:
‘yeah, but most of the civilians **** up
their relationships anyway! and why is drinking
such a cardinal? it makes sense of poetry
and there’s hardly a catholic sip from the grail in sight,
am i really the size of an insect to brood over
getting drunk from a sip?!’
that's the problem with me, i read ezra pound with less
relish for the r-trill and more relish for a hannibal
lecter accent: ah, a girl from arkansas or a p.r. ohio girlie with a ph.d.,
well ain't that a lovely set of cares and cow **** to mind
while i slouch into pythagorean retraction of the triangle:
my head's shaped a square - push that revision in! ah my lovely,
ain't you a pretty sputnik sighting of ******* that's worth the stars -
is that tailoring ***** from the papa's ***** too tight or just right?
it’s what makes beauty so charismatic in venturing
into it intellectually: you have to be numb-skulled
with wine etc. to say it’s worth the entertainment
beauty services acquiring mascara and lipstick gloss
to exfoliate, to incubate with seduction
of a mantis, a black widow, knowsley or wandsworth.