Fifteen minutes or so before a coffee

Pre-coffee poetry, should be cranky and irritable,
something you would not want to clean with hanky
the coffee table. it is dirty and offensive, going
for the nutz of society, as the craving drives the line
forcing the unsavoury characters to come out of the
cranium, meet in conference of violence, like Mohawks
roaming the streets of eighteenth century Londonium,
So the brief encounter with female blackbird, she
fled across the road, on this May fifth when Wehrmacht
troops capitulated - Denmark's history races through
the arteries, as the coffee will come I know, the Baptism
of the neuromodulators in knowledge it will be, and
perhaps a custard pastry will in partnership with coffee
placate and calm the early morning rattled body
So the Pakastani American boarded without being stopped
So the guy who plotted to wreak havoc and carnage
on Times Square, could calmly catch a plane, now how
the hell did he do that? So now the questions and lapse
of security, fears like phobias, mate and come up with
terror-phobic tics, the three second glance will imprison
the Different, oh boy my time, the allotted time for the break
is soon, here then, I can briefly look back, like Ann Bradstreet
upon this poem, not book, see it is ragged and wretched,
But if I were like the Anglo-Saxons, to view the runes
and the ruins, then even here in this derelict form
I find the classics, as would Ezra Pound, not the 21st
century, unless I bring, as the Deuce up my sleeve
the ex machine, the product, the internet, and say
this was composed inside a box on a screen, remote
and cold, unlike the fountain penned Latin I once tried
to write, AMO AMAS AMAT, and we will finish at that.