in mimics of cummings i wonder if
structure pleasures in gentle murder, relishing in
snarls at whitman as she perfumes her lurking hands with the blood of spontaneity.
i wonder if she massacres whim 'til ennui overruns, then basks gleefully in its horrifying
immensity
( and surmises my macabre intuition that she does so unabashedly, with a drink from the chalice of convention,
toasting, to monotony! )
â
any interpretations?