moribund in that alternative refuse-bin
of busted rhyme and proses
where like-minded asinine pretentious
air their echoes from succubus
you'll find our scribe of elongated cries
plying his woes in columns
in feverish frenzy he piles single words
on single term shouting out
his pain dirges and ferocious incantations
from peak to base he oozes ****
prophet vocabularies yelling anodyne prophecies

fresh from the remand centre of pile them high
to knock them down in tortuous vistas
the kapo Bolshevik was more a flamed on that forth day
raw nerves set searing scalding hot
by cogent worded truths of the carcass he homes
and the vacuous trash he calls a mind
not to mention the shaming insecurity of the hidden
shortcoming of his flaccid trouser quill
hence the obsession of pilling single words in long
horizontal stretches
Freudian slip if ever as the small man compensating
in an E-type jaguar and its extended hood

wounded and raving kapo's erstwhile asinine subtleties
bit the dirt in outrage
single stacking out and our hurt Bolshevik managed two
brimstones and thunder echoes
nothing is nothing and unimportant fire fly into dust
like a wooded king turn to ashes
and look behind the rictus tirade of the vacant small man
to view the miserable insecure little child
who knows he will never have the skills and talent of heroes
or grace the fields of his dreams
or ever have the proven qualities and Largesse of the real
men of honour
But weep not for he is okay at stacking words and heralding
doom and despondency
what else is there for him, perhaps shelve stacking at an Indian Grocery...........