the **** do i hear?
either
mike flowler's
for the love of a princess
or
  vaughan williams's
fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis...
yes... because i am also
too aware of being
aware of, my ******* cat,
smirking at me,
lullabied by this piece...
and yes...
anger.. urgh...
         England
did not provide us with
an original pianist...
troll: even i wouldn't be
proud of Elgar...
keep pushing the ******,
keep pushin',
****! where did the G go?!
i cried listening
to vaughan williams...
but listening to classic.fm,
i hear...
i wrote a poem
that became as famous
as the table-ware's worth of,
a, work:
   or a michael portillo
smirk... god! that man attires
himself well
in what, constitutes
a bright neon take on color
in the creed of the tux...
lazily fetched....
why wasn't michael portillo
ever the british p.m.?
   i guess as much as:
which is why i attire
myself in the hierarchy
for the worth of attire
resembling either a genuis
or a ***...
                 my use of
the given tongue is the last
remnant of satus to
concern myself with...
but the pyramid is
all that will ever stand,
and all else that will
topple...
my my: the man dressed
well!
        see the crisp
canary yellow,
the fading cosmopolitan
pink itching
to figure out a salmon spank
of punk pink...
suit and sir...
but i remember burrowing
like an pauper in
the forest,
shoe not far from foot
muddied...
by a man riding a horse...
and...
god give me the courage
to have the same-sense-semblance
of the farce that has
become of this man's face!
leave me a death's ardent
patron to say:
and in that democratic
worth of the column
in a sight of:
the vote to veto ratio -
yet all must die...
i sometimes wonder...
such a well dressed man
as a michael portillo?
i shackles and tiresome tartan
scraps for a bending knee...
squek (s)quack: and no door
or a duck in sight!

   i'd still say:
the man retired from
politics, because he dressed
too well, refined, affirming...
   that:
            not many much
of muttering,
   to claim a rhetorical
spit, and chance...
and...
                   i want to
be reminded by the arithemtic
of the scan of the peopled
earth,
  and never be given
a chance inspection
of the hidden rubric of heir
and hierarchy;

            should i have
burdened myself in utilizing my voice
i should have found
myself in...
  no freedom to heave
with the burden of lodged limbs
before me!

whatever: "philosopher's stone"
of the crux of mammon
doesn't attach itself or touch
****...
   people like pearls
in purple satin of a bishop's cloak!

or at least...
a handshake with a shadow's worth
depart from the body
entrenched in
              the logistics of mind,
belonging to the man: not his scout.