several opening lines,
backspaced and severed,
cut away as strands of cloth
frayed at the edges of my attire:
speak in tongues
without the luxury
of a translation stone;
burned like brittle effigies
spiraling heavenward,
breaths of smoke
in dissipation,
becoming crumpled up poems,
too imperfect to hold on to;
swiftly discarded inkblots,
never to be read again.
Back in the old grandparents'
Back in the old grandparents' house before the thing was finally torn down were several packaging boxes (U-Haul variety) containing several tens of notebooks filled with scribblings much like your "crumpled poems" as with the demolished house, rather swiftly discarded, while I was away at university. They shall never be read again, for sure.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver