Comes a Tourette'd farce
from a man of manic parts.
Read my shake-rattling scroll,
the daily toll of the abridgement troll.
I repeat, as if thick,
and with a ghastly tic,
as if movement mimics meaning,
my tremors urge me to sing
ditties without reason,
witless of their treason:
Try as all mighty to infuse
sweet reason into such refuse,
I pile, I crumple, I daven, I torque,
I creek, I riffe, I broken dis-course.
Mal homenim jetsam, wrack and ruin,
flaws a la flotsam, my jellystrings won't tune.
A real king cake for
Rilke's ink of ache, or
if he objects then melech ha-olam me bucko
if he fobs off eggs as milk (whole) on AM radio
then camembert and pear, a dios!
I'll clamber up, bare in paradise,
my auric-ore hums, my pins sizzle winsome
— to each a hammer falls, and ends
— on each sin-fenestrated skin
— panic, glossy, a cant indeed
— an-tic, a-wash, bandied creed
— and for each unwholesome movement
a candied deed splinters in the wrapper
and, incomplete, spills upon the floor
I am sweet to no one, nevermore.
Eight pounds of terror, with sinister sauce,
eight pounds of terrier, coarse, of course,
a few scraps, rapt for my doggerol,
I orate per canem, as I stroke and call:
"Terrier, you could be merrier!
Why do you growl for fun?"
At a yip, anchovied, hue'd celestial,
from worried, show-me, bestial you?
I am fathead grain, mis-fired, a rind,
tattered rain, a farthing, a lime!
— I mean nothing, puppy, by any of this,
and it's not you who are amiss,
for like an umbrella under the sea
like a tiny mattress under mountains of peas
my shakes display no truths, see?
If your mind unreeled like mine
would you be right to write these lines?
I am a shovel-ready nursery for papyric reeds,
but my body is thoughtless, on motion it feeds,
and if my quivering could but speak
it would only blather, blat, and squeak
these nonsense lines, queer and bleak,
for no thing of purpose does it seek
— say it with me: for dinero!
— repeat forever: forty wide!