spot-on or dead right, take your pick

a sobering thought or an amusement arcade of riddles drowning in magnificent detail

an assurance flapping with madcap application

take away fluctuation and quote the gods all the way to touch and go

on all sides a head-on asymmetry, corrugated and cutting, ripples into dynamic pieces

wending this way, taking soundings or spooning ethereal spill into absence

we thought about drawing attention to invisible returns, like a pair of smarty-panters pronouncing a cherished best-selling difference

with no inclination for winning over, with no listeners to contradict or incite, we were layered with distinctions, a chapter and verse to all appearances

carried away by a landslide of farce that wallops motivation and demonstrates against enclosure, the still note of unpromising possession culminating in a discrimination against effort that periodically exposes the hypocrite

a mania for fly-away chance - protect this hackneyed stream -

dip back into the pit, as now and then its studies us to see the state of our history, a place of entertainment, accomplished by burning all the traps

and still we show up, setting another stage with masks, making off with the elbow grease, wearing away caution, if ever there was such a thing

and yet we cannot be dissuaded or caught napping – if we had been prepared, but not for everything, not for the whole illusion, but for those palmy days, a golden age of only hours

then the bright shrink-wrapped fallacy could have discriminated between assuming spot-on ambiguity

(our favourite imprecision is dead right)

and making little, or nothing, of catching the eye of a closing door, speaking of immersion as if it were a misquote and then the real story runs parallel to the catchphrase that rambles on and on and on