I. e., this unfortunate
     mere erred reflection,
     aye re: zine
     (pronounced Syne),
     cuz you Matthew Scott Harris
act like an old curmudgeon,
     does nothing but whine...

     this one dimensional mere silver,
copper film and multi layered shine
of waterproof paint
     on back surface doth deign
as merely superficial float glass fine
visualization cannot detach itself
     (analogous to a Siamese
     twin engine eared ensign)

sullying for all the
     world wide web to see mine
capricious, facetious,
     and inglorious rotten chine
(vis a vis via,
     sexually seedy, Nein
dynamic, salaciously scabrous,
     spicily shamelessly pine

ning sultry rhyme
     (without reason) attempting
     to wax eloquent as nonpareil poetry
     by futilely try'n
to make a silk purse out of swine
(actually a sow's ear), meanwhile dine
'n high and mighty trump
     petting haughtiness hoping to line

up ducks in a row at mine
(your poor reflection), hmm...wondering
     mebbe I can latch unto a stein
way praying for some means
     to become divine
very aware that
     no mirrored reflection can exist
from a corporeal entity,
     who cannot ever hurt or **** me,

     but,...yeah go ahead,
     and take a fist
also aware nothing can undo
     that banal, carnal, and offal dreck,
     which materiel could be ideal grist
for erotica such as Hustler,
     and/or Penthouse, where prurient
     Lady Chatterley's naked lunch evocations
     conjured behind wordy myst.