Lop off the sides of a rusted pun, and
You meet the edges of an unkind wordspace,
Cesspool of stunted form, the vowelled
Repository of disconsonant etches and din.
Think up the residues of the hallowed
Crass, and the pastiche of trite conjures
Up defence of clique, repetition of din
etched on mindspaces resigned to fallow.
ii. surplus truisms
Ask night to undulate in measured breaths; ask
Evening shade to plumb uncertain hues cutting
Grasp of length to size: too much has been under
Stood, too little dissolved in blood; the crow
Will ask night to undulate in measured breaths.
Ask day to circulate the rimes clogging crusted
Words sticking together in pallid solidarity to
Soar for a few more days on a crestfallen peak
Of heavenly aplomb, plush platitude; the crow
Will ask night to undulated in measured breaths.