We, the petty,
we, the bourgeois,
poring over mirrors of reflected, collected verse,
only we could drown
in the shallow pools of our own desires.
Self-worth and efficacy distort, distend,
Our longing sighs inflate
gauzy bladders, diaphanous,
and we fancy them substantial because they are large –
(We say much the same of our philanthropy.)
– seeking no synonyms,
though “bloated” comes to mind.
A pseudonym can shelter
the sodden intellect, emaciated,
denigrated by false modesties.
How deep, the brainy poet
who breathes his own despite
behind alabaster walls,
sherry perched atop whalebone fingers,
sloshing like the contents of his skull.