A poem after the coffee

Unwound, unbound, the heart now beats a little out of kilter
like when I learnt to skip, never accomplished the feat properly,
The residual sweet taste of custard, and flakes of pastry
like the dandruff of a troll, a turnoff, and I hear laughter
in the head, no more like a silent smile of the flakey wit,
as you know enough, I shall soon, I swear, write shit,
The engineered precision of the bard of post caffeine era
has steered the conversion of the reader toward the flora
where Swinburne no less, in quick zapped read, has violet
with hermaphrodite in Louvre, in introduction "Dolores"
pained the Penguin editor by being like a Daoist orgasm,
Too long, so the flowers remind me, but first we take Detroit,
as on television last night, the no to low income have fled,
like the pair of wood pigeons who spent their days in prism
of sunrise love, cooing and collecting twigs for the future
but the cold May, unseasonable and unreasonable as debt
destroyed this destiny of nature, impeded the population,
Then the flower, the bower, the posy, the rosy rhyme
of Swinburne, in the pitter-Pater of delicate but precise feet
his petals, petulant, in the homosociality of the occlusion
of young adult men who decant their desires in secret
Victorian thoughts, which their Browning and Tennyson
would not broach, if they did, it was with the softest touch,
Algeron, on the otherhand, was all for mention of sex,
This comes to mind, the revolution of the 1960's gone,
Then to return, like the infant of my years long ago,
On the bus, with satchel too large, bringing the swear word
like the wafer of the Eucharist, tasting the C**** or F**ks
learnt through passive osmosis on the school playground,
The simile dragged longer than necessary, burdened
with the beginning of Jonathan Safran Foers Eating Animals
is Wrong, the grandmother, and the dog George, the chickens,
The tunas, the factual and the fictional, embedded in the flow
of the poem after coffee, the resistance, as Hugo Williams
would say, is middle-brow too, not only the diffidence
of Prynne, the connection of the moment, now at the barricades,
As decorum, and form, and patience, come down heavy
They shout and scream, if life were only a supermarket coupon,
or a, and the metaphor is stalled, the poem now complete.