Parthenia

Childless Charlie’s dipshit studies
a concentration are-
which dip him wholly
into a dialect of distillates
whose desired effects
are to yank forcefully
the rank vulgar
from the mucky ditch
(if lucky)
long enough and just so long
to compress a bewitched and feeling flood
into a cogent song designed
for the consecration of the Nine.

To pierce the true, thick vein of ore,
palpate the precious pulse, to place precise
that hallowed weight into the labour of the line-
a perhaps gimmicky mimicry
inspired by the sublime symmetry
of maid and maiden which so oft steals
the poor and merest trace of sense
from the foolish, runny tongues of men
and leaves them mumbling madly
to achieve what churlish seas with ease
express through green furled waves
while in quite quieter quarters
warmly culturing pearls in the
salty deeps of green lagoons.

To kind and kidless Chuck,
this merely means-

"My songs meet few and futile ends,
on Fate and Fury our maddened hearts
and unmajestic mind’s depend-
poesy’s just the wanker’s way,
a time-waste for misfits,
creeps and old buffoons."