You might say I’m nonplused when
I turn towards the nihility meted between
A nullipara and a neutered man.
Am I entirely possible?
I deny the lingering echo of immodest moans
Inside the neglected thoughts that return from abnegation.
Don’t mind me,
I just need to ingest the modulus from Medusa’s hair.
If I had her head molded on my commode
I could meditate on her empty stare.
It would do me solid good
To modulate historical vacuity,
To leave moulages of Diomedes in stony traces, on a beach,
In Limbo, because I can.
Moderately modest readers always modify me.
I’d never see the remedy coming, or the medicine going.
I nod to Nietzsche’s rippling “no”.
What a naughty renegade to know.
Will I, nil I, be in this nefarious modern nescience?
Clamor 