Rock i

Rock is Peter, and by him we have the window

To Europe, the bronze rider and the horse,

Looking upon the Baltic Sea, the Tsar and Pushkin,

Hole in one, bingo!, an association terminating

In stone, for there we must go, an introduction

To the geology of semantics, meaning petrified

In puns, rocking the poem to sleep, lulling the lullaby,

Which we could all forgo, so, the depth,

The hardcore of language, the abyss of definition,

Mere technics or what? T.S. Eliot is brought

In as a midfield player, through him, Dante, Milton

And Shakespeare, the fluvial of the irretrivial

Scored the surface, Pound the unsound marked

The optics, those interfering colours of the canon,

Kicked sense into the Elizabethan, a rough diamond,

Rocked the metric system, brought in Chinese

To glaze the sonnet, thus limed the traditional

Thus the church bells ring on the Rossi-Forel

Scale, seven, the thirst for Christ slaked

Out in the seismic, oh the infidel will quake

In his words, shoot!, the period. of red sandstone

Menstruates, bleeding through the petrine poetics

Shifting the uncomfortable taboo, lets go on

The sense is typically, lagoonal, blue and black,

Rolling stoned, albumnite, bruised by boulders

Of unabashed rhetoric, piled upon piles,

Haemorrhoidal, swollen aperture opening to Hell.