Sour grapes, they float like American
Idol comment boxes, it is crystal clear
that Hart and I will need to keep Lee side
of the husks, the purple-blue ovoids
bob and blip in the scudding overflow
of popular downloads, is this current
enough, are we on the Radio, you know,
Hart, we can do this standing on our heads,
Review the winners, who win by a stanza
in the TLS, pipe dreams pumped up by steroids,
and the Stench of the pussed stigmata, palmed
by the poet, alloy the words, mingle as Shelley
liked his lovers to do, join them at the statement,
it is easy peasy weasy sleazy, still the grapes
bobble and wobble in the bitter wind
up stream, the phrase book has a hook
it is Captain Birdseye, with his fishy fingers
in the sardine tin we call the closed society
where decisions are made, and clients laid
in optic fibre cables under the carpets
of the cultivated, who with a little wiley
publish their assets, keeping the truth off shore,
Hart and I , play pool, they sneak in the black,
We lose, we are lost, and still adrift, between
the rocks of before, we repeat the fall of the poet,
our selves lashed and torn by the comment
sour grapes
We are at our acrobatics, cart-wheeling on deck
the poets you see from an entirely new perspective
they tried, and were tried, they won, and are at one,
but Hart me mate, let's not descend to dialect
and the Latin tag, cos up table nu,
Pertusum quiequid infunditur in dolium, perit
especially, the feast of Saturn, the stew of fruit,
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