To what man could I address
these weak verses that’ll flatter
a poor imitation, maybe, of Catullan poetry
but only all who will not, even,
permit the impermissible
to let a prompt goad me farther
than the lowest of minor poets
-derivative verse, cloying, whorish, unabashed!
Read on, then, reader skim or feast
on these rich embarrassments
and may the Agent Noun itself
soften critical infinitives exposing my deliberate vice,
what’s here, whats-its that’ll be.


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