With beetle-browed irritation
here we go again:
Sprezzatura -
essentially or inessentially
an identity derived
for the pop imagination
of a self-exploding

Not a prison house
or a world view,
this seems a little different,
not in cognitive taste,
but in cultural flavor.

The amperage of misunderstanding increases,
these darkly funny night sweats
a correction to complacency,
a strangled, atonal blend of
and cracks -
a free-wheeling orchestration of
liquid samba and depraved forro.

Pearls hang down in necklaces,
islands come round in archipelagos,
two pupils and one fool go yelping
with little allegiance to tradition;
concertina remixes on high wire,
tightrope de crescendo
scowling in god's pocket
beyond basic logistical discussions.

There are no rehearsals.

The language of flowers:
a trio of violets,
thistle squiggles,
overlaid on mulberry
dead palms and live parakeets,
angels show up elsewhere,
no complexity, virtuous intentions,
maudlin caricatures, or amplitude.

The waggles of focal dystonia:
my light from one lightbulb,
I stand illuminated,
and the bastards tried to stop me.

4 thoughts on “Sprezzatura

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