This is a derangement. ‘Nuff said.
Ox-eyed Does and a Pair of Morons
after John Ashbery
You is poem, the you beside down softly me set. Has poem the attitude
different or adopted, have there aren’t you then and level?
Your one eye doing into me, tease to only exist, you think. I more
than once played have been. Typewriters of chatter and steam
get to know you before, and ended open proof without days. August-long,
these greys of division. Thin as patterned rolls, dream a thing
outside, deeper, able to play. Consider I but said yes actually, we’ll play
into them a system, bringing things together. What is a level plain
that cannot, and yours be toward it? Because sad is poem, other: each miss
you miss it miss. You have, don’t you – but it has you fidget to pretend
or window a look. You taking it at look-level, planned variation
on language with a concerned poem, this.
This one speaks for itself.
Today I need a lot of help
writing. With other things
as well – lots of other things
— but today the writing has me
stymied stumped stupefied
stonewalled stalled stultified
flustered filibustered flummoxed
baffled bewildered befuddled
bedeviled blockaded bamboozled
dizzy dumbfounded discombobulated
in other words,
I got nuthin’.