The violet swirls, purple beams, and glowing coils of
the stressed eye…
I
hasn’t presented a test –
as any personal relations manager won’t confess,
with bared knuckle on belt buckle, regardless
of regular rooking, in the compressed
conveniences of a sterilised Lutèce,
a hotel lunatic with the congress
of those kidnapped by bon vivant duress
where he’s glugging the larynx of a waitress
ill informed as to his more or less
ho-hum middle-class address
in the grandiose quorum of available egress
as much as he is of his bad press
for failing to guess
the backlash of her breasts
or the ennui under her exorbitant dress
or the hardscrabble jest
of her carefully concealed family crest,
or as any tapette thesp,
like a recently transgressed
kobold blessed
with the hokum of Hesse,
falls to his Cokes, makes an endearing mess,
demonstrates dexterous finesse
in his whittling away a Vogue whilst jimmying the jessed
bootstraps and lycraed contest
of inguen belonging to whomever acquiesced,
in this case, a success-
obsessed
dilettante dispossessed
of her formerly Andressesque
qu’est-
ce que c’est carriage, who once impressed
playing demure noblesse
in acclaimed drama, but nonetheless
deals with her failing zest
by declining salads to better reassess
the raffish fluoresce
of looted shooter, and aggress
her tchotchke-crotch in a nest
of eager fingers, and a runny yes,
II
like the yes
of the yes
men of le roi soleil that witness
the proud tumesce
of Lully’s operose abscess
that ultimately loses the exiguous interest
of the royal at rest
despite pulling out his best
moves, invests
in sweating sweat of wet juvenilia, obsessed
with gangrenous graces lest
he become a pest,
or Abelard’s pardon in a chess-
board of theologist-lust, a quest
to molest
the learned draws of the abbess
suppressed
in view of the repossessed
libido at Fulbert’s request
that no NHS
desk clerk could attest
to have ever reversed, his desire deliquesced
to make pious distressed
libertines and repress
the endless
almost soundless
cloistered tenderheartedness
of his mistress
III
not a contact lens length from the madness
of Munch’s smutch of a peeper, undressed
for crepuscular colours to coalesce,
but losing his sense of aqueous humour, id est
balling sludge on his mattress,
the watercress
of his androgenic mop, and the mucky vest
he won’t bequest
to invisible Fips, who can’t express
his primal want, and resents this absent largesse
as much as he would be unimpressed
if he acquiesced at the behest
of his depressed
maître de tristesse
to a work-in-progress
invite at the Freia chocolate factory – unless:
shy bones are free of politesse,
miners take up arms, and express
a want to pay a prophetess
in pickaxes, a minidress
means more than wage in the west,
hours outweigh stars, and progress
turns statesmen stale; the battledress
of all my I’s lined up, abreast.
I
hasn’t presented a test –
as any personal relations manager won’t confess,
with bared knuckle on belt buckle, regardless
of regular rooking, in the compressed
conveniences of a sterilised Lutèce,
a hotel lunatic with the congress
of those kidnapped by bon vivant duress
where he’s glugging the larynx of a waitress
ill informed as to his more or less
ho-hum middle-class address
in the grandiose quorum of available egress
as much as he is of his bad press
for failing to guess
the backlash of her breasts
or the ennui under her exorbitant dress
or the hardscrabble jest
of her carefully concealed family crest,
or as any tapette thesp,
like a recently transgressed
kobold blessed
with the hokum of Hesse,
falls to his Cokes, makes an endearing mess,
demonstrates dexterous finesse
in his whittling away a Vogue whilst jimmying the jessed
bootstraps and lycraed contest
of inguen belonging to whomever acquiesced,
in this case, a success-
obsessed
dilettante dispossessed
of her formerly Andressesque
qu’est-
ce que c’est carriage, who once impressed
playing demure noblesse
in acclaimed drama, but nonetheless
deals with her failing zest
by declining salads to better reassess
the raffish fluoresce
of looted shooter, and aggress
her tchotchke-crotch in a nest
of eager fingers, and a runny yes,
II
like the yes
of the yes
men of le roi soleil that witness
the proud tumesce
of Lully’s operose abscess
that ultimately loses the exiguous interest
of the royal at rest
despite pulling out his best
moves, invests
in sweating sweat of wet juvenilia, obsessed
with gangrenous graces lest
he become a pest,
or Abelard’s pardon in a chess-
board of theologist-lust, a quest
to molest
the learned draws of the abbess
suppressed
in view of the repossessed
libido at Fulbert’s request
that no NHS
desk clerk could attest
to have ever reversed, his desire deliquesced
to make pious distressed
libertines and repress
the endless
almost soundless
cloistered tenderheartedness
of his mistress
III
not a contact lens length from the madness
of Munch’s smutch of a peeper, undressed
for crepuscular colours to coalesce,
but losing his sense of aqueous humour, id est
balling sludge on his mattress,
the watercress
of his androgenic mop, and the mucky vest
he won’t bequest
to invisible Fips, who can’t express
his primal want, and resents this absent largesse
as much as he would be unimpressed
if he acquiesced at the behest
of his depressed
maître de tristesse
to a work-in-progress
invite at the Freia chocolate factory – unless:
shy bones are free of politesse,
miners take up arms, and express
a want to pay a prophetess
in pickaxes, a minidress
means more than wage in the west,
hours outweigh stars, and progress
turns statesmen stale; the battledress
of all my I’s lined up, abreast.