Artificer

I’ll have something to say, 
when my face comes to resemble
the oily raisin’s grace
on a Christingle

and I’ll sit in my usual place
where I’d usually ramble
about the Terri Schiavo case
and blindly fumble

with routine toothpicks, to debase
the perambulating preamble
that I used to embrace

as the North does the porbeagle
that to cephalopods gives chase
as would coppers to a bagel.

I’ll not have a lot to say, commonplace
for a janiform eagle,
or Ganymede’s unlaced
hoodwinked mantle, or art arboreal.

I’ll intend with my shoelace
to maestro japes of the bugle
that comprise the human race
and its every bungle

from Thermopylae to Freshney Place
Shopping Centre, each fungal
tumescence in haste
speared by valkyries, as a carbuncle

would be spared in the case
of a malfunctioning uncle
who perfunctorily promotes the waste

in executing a chore so simple,
doddering on his Trafalgan dais,
as to become inconsequential.

I’ll want something to say, as the taste
of Raleigh’s rust, once able to humble
krill pulled up by the base
ambition in a housecarl’s wrinkled

corpuscular, can finally grace
where my remorseful tongue’ll
try to save face
by piping down to remember brambles.

Who’ll want to listen on these days
is a matter to mumble
about on Damascus highways

when a dead Daedelus, who ambles
alongside, uses sly legerdemain ways
to cover all the angles.