Just a bother – a superego showing-off – again - waylaying

Drowning in cloning its own poor sense of high event

Paying out lauds of homage to the personal pronoun

Like a five pound note remarks a pool of pence

Conceit, conceit,... it’s a capercailie conscience…

My life, my life, is a leafy street, is the dust of butterflies...

Wise in the eyes of solipsism goes the forward nose

Object of natty solecisms, caught, curated, posed,

In truth but a loof, a beetroot, short sock out at toes

As courtly as suave; an orang-outang and all elbows

Arts cast in the heart are what overblows the wish within…

So, so many people raise up a towered steeple to themselves

On an altar of absolution price out vanity’s contagion

Here’s chaps in their set pet channels ritual-victual special lections

That play in the head, they play with the head, drive wits up walls

Shed loads of hackles raise up, and do bonfires dance

Make it the remit, transit it to society; the floor gives cheers

Birds are your words which feather like a knife through butter

Waging death to the spirit, in gravy honoured homilies

Ah, it’s one serial free-for-all, you greased go-getters..

Give ear and free beer, glasses and asses occupy

See how you’re liked; the polls on the pagan pillories

And you the oracular, popular rod of the demagogic forge

Are fire in the air from out a dust pocket come blazing

A coursing, small stony glowing ball; ferociousness as light

Called heart, on a path of flame, consume consideration

The tributary tribunes walking in the dark beside you

Way up in space they stay their pace to mark your measure

And await subsequent splashes

The Doctors and Bachelors of surface-tension sympathies

The fat of the panels thinking what is just is their surmise

The boarder-marauders, the sink-port warders of the sacred schools

Surfers in boardrooms, bedrooms; the season’s trampolining mules

That suffer but nothing; forever begetting their native blood

Till some other mother makes out with one better subterfuge

Today all the fray, all the length of the day, they want to do

What they’re wanting to

While they wander as waiting the haul of the call of the yen

Wanting and restless to be as a Jain or Cortez to all men

And whose names the fates forget them

Arbours and amours their dinners of distraction

All wealth for the self washes down untold reserves of wine

At night, of an evening, the pew, overture, for the new believing

And Coriolan soars, their claws, their cause elective, breathing