Viewed through the sliding

                fountains of mirage,

                                the anti-tines

of a widely spaced comb,

                or just croaked out in panting

                                chest infection,

the subject

                becomes loosely fibrous,

                                jellied,

clotted with air pockets,

                a freshly painted

                                glamour

from some previous life,

                delayed

                                in the mirrored panels

of subaqueous

                self-similar

                                nightclubs:

The Babylonian,

                The Babel,

                                The Electric Workers,

The Hamas,

                The Golf View

                                Hotel-Motel,

The Twin Towers.

                After getting drunk with Mum

                                in the wettexed kitchen,

you sound spongily

                susceptible,

                                velveteened

for cynical command,

                housebound

                                for the maestro’s brush-strokes.

So when the early career academic

                with a volume problem

                                barks

that he

                doesn’t follow your argument:

                                disconcerted,

not realising

                he is an idiot,

                                you mistakenly

withdraw your submission.