Destruction and Creativeness

[Wildcard]

Shaving blades, colder than the distant moon,
grey as an old woman's hair, do not dance like daffodils. I love the way the poem opens. 'Shaving blades, cold . . . distant moon, all nice, but I honestly lost you at daffodil (or maybe even dance).
The hollows of the subconscious but when you switch gears, you do it with style. I love this line and the next (verse?)

where sounds and language sit like books
hold no student's photographs
featuring extended arms,

a poorly written false wisdom
doodled in the white margin.
Maybe I'm a philistine. I have a suggestion here: think about putting the writing in the margin in quotes. I think it would signify to the reader that it's another opinion.

Could the Holocaust have been
one giant performance piece? Don't demonise
poor Mengele. He was a struggling artist.

The Botticelli of scalpels,
Dante of the primed handgun, You don't even have to know what these people did to be affected strongy by this line. I should know . . . )
the surgery, the broken skull.

Depression isn't beautiful,
regardless what the traveler may use of it to feed his art
on returning to this world.

IMO the ending is beyond reproach. It feels like a truistic old-world philosophy that demands by its very nature to be believed in. Very nicely done, sir.