Moon-Struck Pavlovian Excess

My God, is this the last sanctuary
of the wanking sanctimonious, of
the dribbling lead-pencil benders
devil-may-care bent on writing
self-aggrandising gratuitous crap
shaping anxiously solicitous lines
in clapboard, claptrap, structure-less
verse barely sufficient to stand erect
of its own integral incontinence,
confidently expecting gobbets
of phlegm-like respect out of
eye-lidless elapids curled mockingly
in an edifice already defunct,
wilfully inciting less-than-aloof commentary
from sycophants vomiting unctuous
praises in mutually and equally deluded
self-admiration – a fulsome unity incorporated
in a looniness of moon-struck
Pavlovian excess? Well, I’m damn
glad blessed it isn’t that!
© I.D. Carswell