Writing Words which Revolt

You think: I'll write a poem,
Give it a title, 'Insomnia',
Because that's where the idea comes from,
That's the feeling, the inspiration:
Being unable to sleep.
But what will that make people think?

(Don't worry, I'm not getting paranoid)
It's just that pretension smells so foully-
That surface stench to impress
With all that remains
Rotting to the core,
Endlessly diminishing.

Yet we slip so comfortably into these roles
And even as we speak
We know we're doing wrong.
When to administer a hint of irony?
A twist, a bark, a bite? A lick?
Now... Then...

When there's constant whiffs of the clever-clever
(Woof keen-scented hounds)
Writing words which revolt,
'Hence', 'Yet', 'Thus',
Always there as seedlings,
Always sprouting roots.

Each a signal,
A cerebral paradigm
Making you scoff, wince, cringe.
Sincerity, (Woof),
Self-gluttonous elegy.
Come covered confessional.

Adam Gutch