[inspired by Morningglory's poem, "Offrhyme"]
"What metaphor describes him so that none will scoff?
In a deck of cards he would qualify to be the Knave of Off?"
---Depley Dewer, Turbulences Schlepped By A Schlemieling Schnook, Act IV, Scene 11
He had taken in mind the comforting notion
that the poems that best express emotion
must seem to be improvised, first-drafted,
unartistic, and undercrafted;
they must always sound unrefined,
end-stopped, unenjambed, misaligned;
and (most promininently) unplanned
in a tangle of lines that cannot be scanned.
He feels that constellated variety
is too extensive for his poetry---
which, like his repetitious personality,
is wholly devoted to the "Woe is me."
This pattern uncannily replicates
his unexistent love-life and unsuccessful dates:
all of them inchoate, uninformed, and chaotic
(the effects are like his dry dreams, all of them unerotic);
and so he returns to his home alone,
the night like a shriveled cob, or a fragment of stone;
not flames of romance, but dying cincers unfanned:
and he, underwhelming, is once again unmanned.
Starward