Stop Kvetching Kookamunga!

I. e., this unfortunate
mere erred reflection,
aye re: zine
(pronounced Syne),
cuz you Matthew Scott Harris
act like an old curmudgeon,
does nothing but whine...

this one dimensional mere silver,
copper film and multi layered shine
of waterproof paint
on back surface doth deign
as merely superficial float glass fine
visualization cannot detach itself
(analogous to a Siamese
twin engine eared ensign)

sullying for all the
world wide web to see mine
capricious, facetious,
and inglorious rotten chine
(vis a vis via,
sexually seedy, Nein
dynamic, salaciously scabrous,
spicily shamelessly pine

ning sultry rhyme
(without reason) attempting
to wax eloquent as nonpareil poetry
by futilely try'n
to make a silk purse out of swine
(actually a sow's ear), meanwhile dine
'n high and mighty trump
petting haughtiness hoping to line

up ducks in a row at mine
(your poor reflection), hmm...wondering
mebbe I can latch unto a stein
way praying for some means
to become divine
very aware that
no mirrored reflection can exist
from a corporeal entity,
who cannot ever hurt or kill me,

but,...yeah go ahead,
and take a fist
also aware nothing can undo
that banal, carnal, and offal dreck,
which materiel could be ideal grist
for erotica such as Hustler,
and/or Penthouse, where prurient
Lady Chatterley's naked lunch evocations
conjured behind wordy myst.