there aren't that many excuses for
an under-read poet,
           of course, there are excuses
for under-red novelists,
who's idea of an obscure citation
constitutes a ref. to digging up
a misplaced synonym stand-out
in the already apparent rigid
vocabulary: standin like a tree
in a forest of toothpicks:
   a word like that... **** me!
     "obscurity" that begins and ends
with the thesaurus...
     a 'yellow yoke':
    heard of black tulips and black
swans...
            is that supposed to be
a gimmick of yoyo?
           yet I can't exactly find peace
with poetry that: having all
that space, doesn't hide within
its scarce lineage of words some
version of beef, perhaps even
the raw impromptu of a Tartar
choking chunk of razor's raw edge...
god I miss shaving:
     a spared opportunity to cite -
   the one downside of ****** hair:
you miss having a shave...
     and yet 'ere they come -
infiltrators, women, perfectly sculpted,
wishing a poem become like
a handbag, and, thrice
the depth of a puddle...
   perhaps England is "etymologically"
susceptible to overusing pronouns
and other shrapnel words...
   for all I know you can have
a conversation in Polish, and almost
never use the pronoun I...
           hell, to and back from Timbaktu
and not even a sly sniffing out
a necessary use of the pronoun...
which explains the whole
gender "neutrality" of pronouns...
last time I heard, in "ancient"
times, Kings used the singular-plural
pronoun of We...
           and youth can get away
with pretty much anything,
as long as they become good consumers
and spawn consumer ideas...
grammar, though?
    that's not exactly ******* on a wall
and watching the makeshift
   waterfall dry and calling it
grafitti... even though:
    that's my take on invigorating
a post-grafitti movement:
    all it takes is ******* on a wall.
yet there's this woman and she's
like that ***** model reciting
poetry to Samantha
    (*** and the city cougar)...
           nigh, night, knight...
god' (oops, misplaced comma)
   and to think that the concept of
a consonant as a surd
     in English, isn't fascinating...
PEDANT!
           nope, I don't have time for
Tsfetayeva...
               abandoned girls write poetry,
mandible with a beauty like
jaws of canines and prostitutes' bodies...
she writes poetry and she's pretty
and not Plath psychotic?
     last time I checked she thought
a poem was polka dot dress,
or that teasing mini,
a brioche in her middle age...
    or that quirky horseracing
sundial she calls a dead peacock
that's a hat, worthy of only champagne
and nibbles of caviar...
           I can excuse under-read
under-nourished novelists...
              who need to chicken scratch
out volumes of sleeping pill
substitutes, and concrete commute
material to avoid eye contact on
the London tube...
     and the bestseller formula of
the csrpenter's aesthetic:
    write a book that becomes a chair
someone can sit on, rather than fall off...
no problem...
    but when a poet is under-read...
with, simultaneously having
  all that SPACE before h(im/er)...
        shortened to a ref. by some
obscure german, with the name:
   Conrad, Himmer!
                     who cited old german
women and their memory of
the third *****, who, in interviews,
we're adamant that die Führer knew
nothing of the Holocaust...
            mind you,
    I've never seen a photograph
            of Adoolwoof ever visiting
a concentration camp,
    like Lady Di might have walked
a landmine field and called it a Parisian
catwalk...
             my bewilderment is still
regarding, one of the drittereichoma:
    third reisch oma: gwandma'h!
                     ha ha... hw'ite...
oratory example from...
                          Ah'w'ah'ba'h'ma'h...
just a thought: passing around
a whiff of lilac...
                   apparently english was
always going to be fertile ground
to harvest the tetragrammaton,
with, or without a Yiddish influence,
asking whether it was necessary,
or unnecessary...
            still, Tsvetaeva would know...
pretty girls can't exactly
write poems that turn into
mental tattoos...
         and we are past the schoolyard
talking parrot stage of
forcing children to remember
and recite poems,
   only due to the execution of
rhyme...
     our father doesn't exactly rhyme,
as neither does
    a timestable rubric of 1 through to 12...
   mandible beauty
write a poem that becomes
a tattoo on my mind...
        we all know of
the exhausted use of rhyme
         as: safetynet when forcing children
to memorise and recite
a poem, as if it were nothing more:
than a ******* nursery rhyme.