An insipid solace (comfy lack) furnishes
a fair-weather risk
with haywire farce (cracked sun in the circus of chance).
After smog subsides
a cosy sprinkle left out of
sweep braves absolution,
the foreman of sorry,
upstaging a greedy diversion (hobby-hunger)
swallowed in translation to preserve pith.
Whisking detachment into silhouette (profile beat)
with a tissue that teases riot
genesis, sluttish yet bland
too graphic
and grim
as suspense hinders chronic charisma.
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