Saturday, May 22, 2010

Marianne More reconstructed

I'm hard to disgust
but a pretentious poet can do it.

Make a fuss 
and be tedious.

I'm annoyed? 
Yes; am. 

Might verse not best confuse
itself with fate?

Tell me, tell me
where might there be a refuge for me
from egocentricity
and its propensity to bisect,
mi-state, misunderstand
and obliterate continuity?

After all, consolation of the metaphysical
can be profound.

Pacific yet passionate -
for if not both, how
could he be great?

 Poets, don't make a fuss.

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