Wicked, I know, but who could resist?
Oh, this must be a poem,
from the lick-backed wobble
of word-induced glimmer,
from the near-likely brood
of dimple-starred crows,
these broad gallops of
weedy wings.
Like the grand chausee
or the midge-grained wire alike.
Oh, this must be a poem,
sits like a wimple
across my greedy brow;
yet the still carcass
– a mantis dream –
occurs relentless into the
sun-darkened corner.
Oh, this must be a poem.
Absolobotomy bottomlessly brilliant verbicraftage.
I am flummoxed to the point of stupefactual supratranscendance…