I Like That Prosetry Stuff

I like that prosetry stuff
where words are placed
as melodious arrows
to an inevitable truth
dishing out a lengthy sentence
given on grounds
of crimes to rhyme
flushed down the pan of the past
long overdue
period
I like that prosetry stuff
where punctuation has been embalmed
on the insistence of time
ruthlessly buried
beneath an unsubscribed headstone
where a chisel suggests
that there was once life
I like that prosetry stuff
good old words made plain
seemingly scattered
spontaneously
in a warm soba
served to cool suspicion
if only for moments
of suffocating ecstasy
I like that prosetry stuff
a lazy drinking song
sung by those sober enough
to give weight to the words
in which rhyme is a fugitive
where the throats of stanzas are slit
and meaning is comfortably hung
to drip its blood
zinging through the air
a child angel sat
held in awe
as molten plastic
falls from his hand
I like that prosetry stuff
a runaway romance
for regretful lovers
whose arms had been caged by fear
legs bound by faith
in a literal religion
full of shortcomings
and denouncement
lovers all the same
and sure in the knowledge
that the rounds of mental masturbation
they poured over the classics
were nothing
but the planning
of a little death
I like that prosetry stuff
because it reminds me
that everything new
has been done before
by a bouncy young poet I heard
on an old Argo record
whose shape I have taken for myself
and who will now be wise enough
to learn that his industry
has finally been recognised as important
if only prideful greed
would not deny his existence
rounding up his titles
by all means necessary
and burning them
in a very private holocaust
I like that prosetry stuff
in which
after careful consideration
and untold remorse
the versifier
has firmly shaken
the hand of the writer
altogether unafraid
of the horrors of change
after talking itself out
of committing suicide
on the touchy premise
that life really did seem to smell of roses
at least for a while
I like that prosetry stuff
a claustrophobic conversation
in which a great new prosetrist
or prosetriste as she will be known
who will not sue me
reminds us all
that the rain is full of air and the air is full of rain
I like that prosetry stuff
a hierographic polygamy
animated by the whistling tribes
of a welcome apocalyse
laying waste to decades of toiling
in the abattoir
of a thesaurus
which I have consulted
on countless occasions
for this
but that is fine
because I am being honest
uselessly goading
and massaging letters
in the thankless task
of complicity
I like that prosetry stuff
cementing as one
the mountains of love
we locked up in the shed at the end of the garden
the love we let whimper
in a corner
like a dog
that we would kick
out of guilt
for the children we had forgotten
at the supermarket
I like that prosetry stuff
a new vague
in a push for prosaic domesticity
of poetic withdrawal
a western spaghetti
beaten and pressed
by a party of chaff extractors
whose only hope
as little specks of dust
in the clouds of forever
was to be held for a moment
by someone whose mind
was empty enough to read
without prejudice