that *** on the street looks more
poised in his corvus hunch or
       in his impeccable akimbo than
some Buddhist monk in his
        cherry blossom grotto...
          even beneath moulded effigies
of coppery labour or stern iron prim
with all but hat urban circus
    of sanity's crescendo hardened
for some dated award:
     as to how some of the dead are
  thieves of time,
        a thief for what's otherwise
deemed an altar of unscathed hearts
  and unsheathed tongues.
   is this rib by rib rattler of
                  weathered wisdom,
          as ornament in garb of breath
ache and whims,
           the swooping gargoyle
   from once proud pulpit above
     the hunting drone army
    of centipede's march of suit
  boot, cravat and dreas, who's
gorgon mother attached a pinch of
     sly labour to this seemingly idle
   humbled sight, I see not other scheme
behind this myopic façade;
         yet this is not a monk to his ivory tower
  clinging, to an order or to some
byzantine credo peering,
       in draft and shared among
the finished hardback bound works
of argument contra nine-to-five
      (plus commute) sneering
   garçons of the labels,
              or thereof lack
of what else to best economise
   an upper hand toward a staunch belief;
   and yet again should
       another glance take hold
and sway the freeing nonchalance
   of the piquant show or airs,
    is that *** not the prior mentioned
gargoyle, son of a gorgon,
     who unlike the latter but nonetheless
still posses a reminiscent
       traction of a numbing potion;
  while all around a tornado dance immersion
antithesis of narcissus,
        a mere *** to some,
    yet a grandiose stoic statue to others.