Blank Formless Modernist Hearses Poem by Philip Housiaux

Like
retired drunken
life insurance men doing life
habits now off-commission
rumpled warn smooth yarn
of poly-velvet suits
of proverbs still selling smiles
collapsed, sprawled out across cheap white carpet.
Your single syllables
laze, lying
down the page
unexercised fat round, then long slender undulating jottings
raised upwards shamelessly
enticing youth - callow lives thrill to door salesman wit.
But just long enough
until we should conclude
between your legs
was end of truth
or sex of mystery.
With each of your cliché
sweet nothing lines
a grave
of the space, now seen.
Like a work gang
of old drunken
life insurance men
digging doubts
pedaling immortal’s certainty
so much, modernist poetry.

To you classical poets, do not wince at
perfect truth and tok tik last line assonance.
Even yarn ambiguity, comes undone and undiscussed –
cause this is the modernist life in resonance.
Trochee will fall, tok tik but gain it must.