this is plagiarism/admin

[Leanne]

An Ode and but a re-write to A Summer Night.

9PM
The bear itself was choked with might,
it play at moving pot and hoist;
pumped across the hope-glazed frown,
in cathedrals meshed against almighty why?,
the river poops it's forlorn depths,
in oft spent bar, in steamed-up zip-locks.
Though winter wheezed in squallard bog, -- *squalid
sweat-drenched favour poked with stars,
and shot back warm, white, oozing jail.  -- this stanza sounds like it's exploring the relationship between constipation and anal sex -- or maybe the dangers of carrying cocaine in stomach -- clarity is not a dirty word, by the way.

10PM
Old lay prime spent of life
mopeds rush for Modish haunts;
then flushed and florid, folded in
to eggwhites, peakless, aimless waves,
as horses lost the stallion-slapped mare.
Extinguished by the press of rump
the flame of phallus flickered out
with every parting shadow lift,
‘till only one or two kicked horseshoes
along the cobblestones rutted path.  -- back to anal

11PM
Soon the pill of last-to-heave
miracles unto sprawling, open song.
Mare laughed at metaphors for moons,
Baboon's Pecan's, an Orange friend;
then crossed in peril, Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were rammed.
Without the living on the branches
the silence added to the heat. -- sure, she's got a face like a horse, but get a few drinks into her and she's an animal

12 Midnight
No one baboon in cramped, dank cage
with peeling fruit and curtailed existence,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in office hope of stifling air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating hand.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted mouth.
Just end the tunnel, the mow of the lawn,
bring one more asshole, moist and bare.

I'm sorry to say this, but although I enjoy surrealistic imagery possibly more than some of my companions here, I really like it to have a key and the only keys I've managed to pick up are the ones I've mentioned, which feel cheap and unpleasant.  These are not images transporting me to a dream, or even a nightmare; rather, there are just too many lines that live only in your head, without any chance of access.

This is not terminal, however.  You have a purpose for writing this -- presumably to entertain, and also to communicate -- and your edit should hone in on what is really necessary in order to achieve this purpose.  Remember, your audience is not in your head.  

There are many famous abstract or surrealist or deeply metaphorical poems out there, the meaning of which is not immediately clear.  Meaning is not my beef with this -- it's that unlike many of those other poems, I don't want to read it more than once to pull more out of it.  It is missing the element of fascination, and I do so love to be fascinated.

Which "A Summer Night" is this supposed to be a rewrite of?  There are many, and I know a few of them well, but can't reconcile this with them, so it must be another.