only among poetry do you feel so guilty having written much and read so little; then come the chances to appreciate other genres, and having appreciated such genres, become all too willing to change the genre of your expression into something worth attention when none was required; such is poetry, an art of beatified speech where there was none to begin with; and where adequate reading was enjoyed, no other arithmetic of adequacy was expressed, given the tongue's complications of usage, i.e. no beauty ***** joining him for a scene at the opera, blah ha; no tsar that met him ever left talking about him with a feeling of jealousy - the concert of concubines and the nagging of the tsarina to keep up appearances: now watch the nagging darwin in me with a monkey's face doing the juggling act of ooh ooh oh ooh for the mouth's shaping into a protruding of lips awaiting a trumpet! blows a desire of the many sires, and hence the shipwreck of the aristocratic hearts gathered into a populace of a little city without silverware and serf hands providing the chess moves of moveable silverware for entrée, main and dessert of edibles macaroons: ah those feasting eyes and corsets... how eager the scythe in hands that sweated for the eyes to be so tearful and yet unsatiated at a table of candlelight and ahem aha manners of using napkins; i'll concern myself with courtesy when i'm able to express myself in saxon or bavarian: burping after a carbonated drink at the table drank... and indeed i'll ease out a **** on my way out from the splendour to an applause: without a necessary crescendo of my own undoing!