Death Of The Sitcom: An Abjuration

Never shall I argue with hinges

forgetting the lurid anatomy of Daybreak

under flannel

nor gather silhouettes at eventide

sewn among tempestuous, vernal plaits

Where fields of dross are beaten

I cast no searching eye

no shadows in the blackening paddock

no airs to vaunt my weightless claim

Beneath lambent waters

my rhythm is coiled

unguided by this cryptic trance of Living

I dance upon the wet stones

To beg the wind its insuperable mercies

baiting starlit peaks

with rubicund idylls 

hermitic sang froid

to raze their hoary-crested diadems

Alas, where faint beams rattle

The proscenium waves tantrically

Sped on to delirium

by the click of a silvern hasp

a bare foot

through tall-flowered esplanades

paler than gravity.

—  Jason Alan Wilkinson