Typology of Verse – I

There is the set of wordies that aims
To titillate and one that gravitates
Towards a lump in the throat fixated
On lost syllables wrenched out of

A necessity garbled by senses; there
Is verse that gobsmacks you out of your
Sensicles, mobs the lilt in the spewage
Urging the innards of language to

Rue the frame of day; the poem that
sits daintily at noon, counting swans,
Idling by as lovestorms dismember limbs
Across the global south as you persist

In seeking pithy peace in rhyme, reason
In metrical allocations; demented forms
Popsickling structural garbamaments will do
Their bit in informing words that coalesce.