On Death. 1st Edit

[shemthepenman]

Hello Billy,
this is one of those silly little middle class poems that I usually avoid... but you tricked me with the title and I managed to make it to the end. So... NB: I'm writing this on my phone, so i can't go through all the rigmarole of formatting...

On Death.

Like everyone I have a hidden citadel; —I don't have one.  
An ex wood-wormed drawer where treasures trove. —"ex woodwormed" is rubbish. In fact, the second line is not needed, at all. It's basically just a rewording of the first line, but you've seemed to want to make it incomprehensible —pretentious?
Twin Watermen lay in state —I understand pluralising Waterman, but i would question its efficacy.
embraced in shrouds of fine filigree.
Upon their autopsies the worst was confirmed
Exsanguinated, bled out like Halal —"exsanguinated" sounds to clumsy and crap for a poem—this poem. And I am almost certain it has nothing to do with the fact I had to look it up...
chicken on Eid Al-Adha.
I'd sacrificed them like a Muslim holy-man;
a final stroke for each.
I never fed them but the once,
and replaced each one in turn. —I don't really get how these two lines are connected. 
Flawless in the right hands —personally I would start the poem here and give it a different title. It remains specific but also has a certain generality of experience. It reminds me of when I got my first electric guitar and after a couple of strums declared it broken until it was pointed out that I had to learn to play it.
they never marched to my tempo. 
Zig and zag they went, darting —I have no time for these kind of line breaks. They make me want to clip poetry round the ear and say "stop being a dickhead" 
in tongues they spoke, undecipherable.
How they vexed me, left me blue-fingered —"how they vexed me"!? Mr Wilde? Although, to be fair, this is a eulogy to two gaudy fountain pens, so could be apposite.
blue-thumbed and humbled. —This line is good. 
Their sweetly etched  14 carrot toes kicking page —I would cut "sweetly etched".
after crumpled pages to the trashcan; —I know you're not American so I don't know why you would say "trashcan" and not bin.
pissing Prussian over white heavyweight vellum.
They died and in their death throes turned me... —I don't get the turned me bit. Turned you what? Into a normal person that doesn't use fountain pens! Aha, I see.

Have you met my Biro?

This was actually really nice to read. Thanks.