The writer

 
      The writer writes didactically, tautologically
      as though the act itself were euphemistic youth.
      It is a casting of stones, a breaking of bottles.
      Flames rise from the bones.

      It is all beyond description. (a damned soul
      who could not speak of it, but only moan--
      he told me so) There is no plot, and the plot
      -thickens- while characters bore.

      The day is green, and mercilessly mercurially
      miraculous in reliability. The practical sun
      -hangs- within impractical sky. Orange peel
      dries in the ashtray. Nothing more.

      You are given no choice but to look anew
      at the complexity only a simpleton enjoys.