Flashsmith

I apologize for the Spectacular Crap that is this post's title, as more often than not, it's far more clever (which admittedly isn't saying much) than the body of work you masochists stop by to read. AnywaySSSSS, using this fine cache of lexemes, I present to you the companion piece in verse form, also worthy of the appellation Spectacular Crap. There's a story in there somewhere, trust me.

Don't panic, catalept;
stuff catastrophes in your pocket,
you'll move soon. Delusion's only
picketing that & it. What?
No hypomania this manic grandeur,
you disconnect from all but whom.
To who, to whom, she's never in the room.
Oh, but she is, look: a book, organic fruit &
discarded stops & starts. Those letters never sent?
Those bibelots, penned in obscurant penmanship,
unshipped, composed on a futon, so futile.
But there she lives. Where? There & here.
You wish.
I did.
I tried, I tried, circulating beautiful fakes.
What of unseemly veracity? You let me stabilize &
look what that got me: a non-
corrosive letdown, a dance around
four on the floor; guessed that was in store
but I deserved oh so much more.