the mirror eyes of the corpse, long after people
voiced their concern of the fear of seeing
them no longer blinking, or allowing a peering
into the window of soul, either shuttering
them still to suit the numb limbs, or preparing
them with two coins for Charon and the crossing
of the Styx - that foul river of modern combustion
engine ointments of unrefined diesel.*

i'm angry at my piano of letters,
i call it the dog whistle piano,
the silent piano that rightly can also be
compared to a machine gun -
and that dumb musicology of poetry
is rhyme, or as one english teacher
revealed, the poetic alphabet of 52 letterings:
roses are red (a)
violets are blue (b)
             dearest repertoire of procrastination's jive (c)
             a head donning a beehive (c)
better dead than red (a)
i wrote this wearing only one shoe (b)...
and like this onto:
bring in the four elements,
atheists argue life ought to be like air,
never connected to skeletal structures,
randomised in atomic form and our bodies too,
the ones citing life's arguments
using earth have the easy inhibitory
village life, they're the characters
on b.b.c. radio 4's the archers (not
that peach schnapps, the mighty
"i'm living on a farm yo ** **",
what do you call a non-urban benefits
system? farming subsidy) -
those of argument from water we take
to imply basically all of us -
the fiery ones' motto better to burn out
than fade away - the 27 club -
and then the lightning ones
are stuck in a dying light-bulb epilepsy
of constant mirroring rejuvenation -
mind you, the moths are bewildered,
it's a lysergic acid (can you imagine
a lysergic alkaline?) trip for them,
so they don't even bother smacking the
**** thing for an instant light-bulb-tan:
moths invented u.v. sun-tan parlours long
before we had the thought of it.