Who Am I In Poetry

Who am I in poetry? I’ve not been hiding it: A human deposit of serio-comic wit, Who feeds another with the fairly fake And makes him the consumable thing take In either decided good faith Or snort-rid breath… A maker of another less quick To denounce a played trick In lines permitting fantasy parking spaces But of this kicking over the traces; No risky conjecture that one would never guess But that some wearer would eagerly try the dress From unplanned artificiality Planning sugary originality A part pursuit of Sapir-Whorf Relativity That has my pen entrusted untiring activity: Their classic theory that words suggest thoughts Which the serio-comic now massively courts; What the Sun Magazine possibly knew But wouldn’t want to near ‘the mysteriously new’. So, that’s whom I’d been in poetry; Please, only rubber bullets from the Poetically Military.