if it ever wasn't despicable, poetry with conversational overtones, and yet all the more dear, than that rigid suit, matching socks, clean underware and even a popish demure... of yet another seance in the dead tongue classroom of: rules, rhymes and calibrated perversities worthy of a pedantic despot. if ever a chance to beautify language from the mud-stained dross of daily services, a thousandth 'thank you' from that mosquito-sting itch of the proverbial, formal toot-p-toot: citizens in cohort stringing pirouettes of lardy ballerinas.*

thus in ars díēs (the art of days),
   how not fill the mind with
darting footsteps when standing
immersed in scorthed & crackling
clay of pater tempus?
  a day-to-day epic?
  no affairs with a trojan war
to claim for one's own repertoire,
or thereby the warring eyes
  with magnolian scythe swoons
or that sabotage of mortal frame
whether a penitent man,
  or a patient man,
  the old woman still feigns
that a clock is the heart of a home:
to me its an annoying insistence
to imagine a phlegmatic
take on a carousel:
  + or -, depending on whether
you can fathom the near impossibility
of yawning when nearing
      lull and gaping nox.

but still no 30 years, no show
of cunning, courage or loneliness,
no adventurous scoops or a bargain
of lies, as notably a seemingly routine
banality from the annals of what
others scatter on menus of:
scollops, sand, frolicking,
  alternatively: holiday reading
  in unbearable frying dunes,
   while watching blinding diamond
pinches on the azure -
but to phrase it better,
even with that, twelve dwarfs
an arching temptation for
necromancy, a gypsy love for
ragabond set scenes,
  and all those desires man delves
into from behind a respectable
ordination toward an inconsequential
defeat, with no kiss nor
  tease nor joke aside from
teasing death - thus in patriarchal shroud,
with a mere laurel wreath and
a respectable salvo,
  there's still the endearing compulsion
to riddle and be riddle with
the banalities as if a giggling sparrow,
light-headed commands...

...the chance of phrase,
    the lottery of words,
    against beyond all horror of
imagining orc or jinn or shatter jaw
of wolves...
    
- not all thus said could ever strip
  the horror everyday,
  in pairs and in tiers,
     past the naked inferno
         and yucky gingerbread kneading
of body against body,
   escapism in bypassing courting,
friendship, toward the casual
  burning of bridges and dissociation
from artefact to artefact,
  from the shackles of
   both formality and informality,
a chance to confiscate a brief
   irreversible- opening,
      as said: the world is your oyster,
make sure you only keep it briefly.

alternatively even the monologue,
or one's idealism folds quacking,
  if it ever wasn't worth admiring
  a creaking floorboard or a chair,
as if to say that: worn shoes
                 and a cushioned lair,
  encouraging the slang throng give
up its slavish inclusiveness mantra:
  dictum vogue.

-

in that no-man's land
    or rather: upon the misnomer
savannah -
            a lion claims sight
  of a juicy blank,
  that instrumental pivot of
eye with no tongue narrative -
pristine sheen of two icebergs,
of what is two-thirds acid
   serpentine guts and vigor,
while only a third Pavlov,
pounce and squirming bellydancers
  of the lashes...

   again, on the misnomer savannah,
an image or a metaphor when
I compare the fresh effort
  and the breathing canvas meat,
and these as incision and tear marks?

am I not to say that:
   a. true virtue is not afraid of critique
      (supported by reason)
    with an exempli gratia,
         b. critics do not pass
              citation a., which is to say
   c. critics are like hyenas in
   comparison,
  the once breathing meat,
its gushing burgundy
    croaking bones, mussle sinew
  and the remaining assortment of
pâté crevices emptied,
  akin thus, with the satiated bulk
of a lion's share deserved,
  scavenging the carcass,
  less a feeding while more a looting,
are critics truly the thinkers
for the people who would
rather others think for them?
        
  perhaps poor wording forced
that sort of question,
    yet it still remains, stalled
and waiting,
             by the time i've made my final
  incision, the once pristine alba
      will become a carcass catatomb
  filled with hyenas' smirks and snobbery,
  of those lesser kind journalists -

...by the time I mawl my final gnash,
   there will never be a case
  for a critic's in situ case, comparable
     to an "uncomfortable matress",
prima dona in heaven's name theatrics!
yes, the pervasive argument,
counter: contra carcass.