Sunday, 29 September 2013

Sonnet after accusations of being 'pretentious'

The florid crime, the quirks of Calliope's whims,
Distil the drool, satiric treacle's pride,
The glottal joke, the aspic spittal's phlegm,
To sweetened truths and honeysuckled lines.
In nervous creeps the sorry heart rebels
With relished winces, spices numb the lips.
And rapture's yodelled song is quelled,
Preferring obmutescence - or a quip.
The things you call pretentious burn the blood.
The pierce and pant, the flush that swells the lungs.
Split-second strokes that cannot cool to words,
Caloric gases rise to rack the tongue.
Feel free to dress your abstinence with spite.
If beauty's truth, it's safer to be right.

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