and with lightened breath i aspire to the cold
with sparring scarce snowfall.

with a broken index finger on the right hand
am bound to unearth words:
unearth none; all the better,
should they learn a thought or two
about us coordinating a fake status quo,
well bred the attention of politicians
as justifiable pencil-pushing aggravation
of the unemployed gearing to be readied:
the rich are clever, indeed,
but they're hardly the ones to intellectualise;

i know, most of the time i'm feeding a political
eroticism, megalomaniac wording
without an egotistical expectation,
it's worth more than fiction, the throng
that does not congregate, merely platonic shadows
who shovel in a shakespeare's worth
of attention while feeding a cohort ant
into symmetric obedience;
a delusion must first envision a profession
to cure it, rather than envision delusion as
the self's prime expression deviating from thought
and thus mediating a necessity of "sober" expression
that might subsequently desire containment
with the contamination of bourgeoisie contentment
of my own akin care to collect a library
because of the poverty of the public library.