Tune in and I get your demons.  My tea doesn't cure or matter or.

   And to be for some is to glide.  You and I are sick and regal liars

And am I to be taunted:  Quick!  Come!  That is, this life is yours!

   And without me to quote when you lose anger, I bet.

Tune out those dire poets you say are not murmuring,

   pontificating.  For it is, and indirectly now, poets I care

to walk to the bus with.  They are positively full of cider and prunes!

   Your poets are insolent, Cynthia.  You are not a ferret?

Oh, you hibernate like a ferret until the temperature brooms out.

   And then you sit inert.  It's late now and in the time of Virgil!

And that I is not my life.  I am a subsidiary when I'm too

   new. I'm in Formica and I know what price aura!

Oh, to be alone with you at your furnace, a hair in the Tyrolia.

   Oh, to be Proust in ecstasy or a rat under rats.

And me, I'd fix 'em.  You accuse your father

   of always infesting crudely in gold.  You don't care, man, you

say quote, come, unquote, to me through me for you and I are emeriti.

   Sit Galatea you are not an alien;  You are:

utterly felicitous.  You pry your ectoplasm from the Ceraunian king

   and placidly accept the waters of Oricos.

I don't, you don't lie so put a crumpled-up runt...Detour:

   Can my life and your limousine verb what Rose Anne

has less of than me?  To row to the sea of two cities.

   "Tell you, which port is my woman cloistered in?"

And tell 'em:  "Like it or else, atrocities consolidate,

   and like it or not the hill is ice and the future is mine."



You are a hick!  A hick and a rat!  Iniquity is rampant!

   You and I see the most:  I said, you are not a tulip.  Don't press it.

Cupid depends on false license and gaudy liquor:

   you are not destitute, Cynthia, you and I and our anger.

I care for us when we're ill and for this I get a Roman caress.

   You talk but without me your regal sweet talk is negated.

You're ill and my gusto comes with it (it's required).

   And quote, come, unquote, you don't know how bad it is to be me.

When I'm supposed to be doting I rebel.  You fight a huge woman

   and this is before the boy's opus.  A pair of rats are equal.

Why you would dare that Great Moose, why you would date that Major Moose...

  Forget your sinuses, what about me!  I am not a tame man.

Thank me not you.  No Indian genuflects, not even consciously.

   But we put bland, obsequious songs

without a guitar or music, not that love is late, Apollo.

   Why I fret about love:  Cynthia is my cheerleader!

Nothing of mine equals this like and is contingent on the side of her plane.

   Sue God?  You knew I'd sue no one, it's my Gestalt

not my high and dry alias.  Certainly fighting is below love.

   It's my glorious notoriety I ought to can.  

To poem, Ninth

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