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How can I not cross the Brexit box
when the Leave campaign
is stationed at 'Lysander House',
Catbrain Lane, Bristol?
Less the Brex Pistol, bad European,
more like if you're a-meing,
my vote's in the bag!
And if you're me-howing and you know it,
mogito purrgo sum, Rene Descats
(felisopher more infelicitously
in a bag).
This poem makes more sense, well, actually makes sense when you're aware my real Christian name is Lysander - 'Camden Cobain' is an ironically achingly hip username for HP.
Apocrypha:
'fore he cold-shouldered
cold feet in Gethsemane,
Christ had caught a chill.
'One of you here tonight will
- Achoo-das! - betray me.'
You can't choose what kind of poet you are.
Classroom or cult, laureate
or in the garret just for the hell of it.  
Mardy bard dangerous to know
or Cheese Poet, Volgon poet, Barry Kent.
Synaesthetic  Symbolist or Imagist
streamlining stanzas. Postmodern punner
or Romantic stunner-***-slummer.
Winherback onetimer or lyricynical
loverat roborhymer.  Syllable sentinal,
prosodic stresshead, tweak freak w/
iambic pentup rage & a rictus gaptoothed
nonictus. Or Beatnik bongo bard
whose Kerouachilles heel is itchy feet,
wanderlust metre, growing up to be protopunk
poet safetypinning syntax into blank, well,
pretty vacant verse. Poetryslam
champ, boisterous Banjo Byron
spouting professional confessional
McGouggherel. Or egotistical sublime
enjambing scars, obscurely immaculate
poete maudit peaking posthumously.

The potter or the sculptor.
The potterer or the sulker.
An immortal name seldomread,
or 1 anon for alltime & typeface,
yet whose fudged floruit was a crow's nest
for the Eye of Providence, agamottoptically
scoping an atlas of experience;
whose traveller's tessitura was compact in
1 couplet the Common Lexicon dibsed.
Blackbox syrinx talking to self
in glossolalia of Xanudu.
Or mellifluous hyoid expiating
a black ice conscience.

Illiterate poet whose bodyofwork
is a worked bodypart or twerked bodyart,
whose elegiac/tragic/epic life
doodled on some hearts.
Linebyline, nulla dies sine linea,
the poem we write (the 1 we're
the 1st to read everytime)
is a gazehound of logotherapy,
who catches the lure of jouissance
only in a lapidary freezeframe
of its trilliant gait, tho' it runs
the creativewritingcourse of a lifetime.
But even doggerel w/ a dedication
doesn't indicate afflatic altruism,
pah, poets are just cadging favours
w/ scrapsofpaper, w/ jingles &
janglednerves of abstract value
only slightly less iffy
than common currency,
depending on the exchangerate
between the personal & the universal.

Therefore: reader or patron,
oldfriend or 2nd wife;
or puppydog Boswell, Padowan amanuensis;
mechanical hare muses past, present & future:
when swell of soil breaks upon
some bone glade enclave of dwale & boles
& a badgersett for my scarpered soul,
the granite surfboard wiped out upright
will puff out its slab & entreat
of you the epitaph I now entrust:
RIP, Lysander E. Hardy-Pearce.
He couldn't help the kind of poet he was

(but if angels should sing me to my rest.
I'll know I was the kind of poet noone read).
Bigorexia & Bonespiration
went to bed.
Bigorexia blew off
& Bonespiration was dead.

Torschlusspanik & Tidsoptimist
went to bed.
Torschlusspanik blew off
& Tidsoptimist was dead.

Jealousy & Compersion & Compersion
went to bed.
Jealousy blew off
& Compersion & Compersion & Jealousy were dead.

The ****** doors & Michael Caine
went to bed.
The ****** doors blew off
& Michael Caine was dead
chuffed.

Israel & Iran
went to bed.
Israel blew off
& everyfuckingbody was dead.

— The End —