Witness now this truth! the raisin’s 
but synecdoche for the kibble’s  
soily directrix, realism’s handcuffs—sifting 
clumped momentum through a scary, 
thrasonical nitrogen, fleuron 
assaults outrun the bombardiers, then linger 
hideously—undone as the slack-baked: 
its blae fodder lacks ezan 
for this thankless fizgig of lustration… 

A household’s accumulations of such momenta 
account for the totemism of the tachometer’s tremolo.
You’ll know the focal scribbler, the tapetum’s distemperment
and the stabilitating medusoid that sways regardless—
not to mention the merenchyma, the fens, that span
as though preponderant.  

And I, enteropneustal, wobble and stoop 
as quilled as you can make a manikin… 
in strengthy blend, still trental in a voiture, 
woven by a speiss’s apprisals, 
I size up against a dislikeable ligulate— 
I, turnspit, turnspit of smothered, forlorn spirits,
the civilist’s studded lizards, desmids. 

Totalised in this horologium, who blends dies, 
lacquered by pithy admonitions spilt 
over my pagoda, whose blistered summa finally burns with
recount of that shitty ragout and its participative apples. 
Confronted with the possibility of purgatory, the firmament of
incoercible clover heath shall emerge—the whittled wing rasps
all but stooped brilliance, wherein Steve Smith* pleases.

—
* Australian cricketer, b. 1989.