Celan’s always there with
“ the style of your silence”-
of this our quirked-up Chuck
is quite full aware, and, thus,
overthrowing wholly himself
to passion’s wide whim,
proceeds he, with gusto, from there-
“Of such styles speaking,
mine’s done caught
a taint of violence-
all clenched-cramped-crimped-
just to think of that
WonderBread simp offends
my auto—oversestimated sense of style,
get me me all worked-up.
Let them proclaim from
to
is an accomplished pianist,
a smart, kind man-
his cotton-pickin’ radio show
drives me outta my gourd,
sicks me to my quiv’ring quick
makes my necks-back hairs stand up.
That vile, soft cock shit
(or flaccid hits for those urbane)
sets my teeth agnash, unsheathes my sword
boils my bile, arrythmias my heart’s hot flame-
and for love of Lords and Ladies all,
for the sum of all my silver, gold and cash
I’ll say it loud and NOT shut up!”
To punctuate this little rant
does our ever-chastiseable Charlie
absent-mindedly as always
deposit his briefcase in the boot and
close his car’s trunk – CLUNK- upon
his most innocent pinky fingers.
And while nerve-endings
scream with stinking pain and
he emits a low spittle spraying howl,
his incessant thinking stopped,
little lingers from his snobby plaint-
he lifts his brutish head
and prays for rain.
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