I'm suffering from my yearly case of MPI (Midwinter Prosodic Itchies), a condition that leads me to try hair-brained experiments after being indoors too long. Anyone willing to join me in some Glyconics?
NUMBER, PLEASE:
"Muse, explain: justify conclusively
why poets, forever gravitating
to foolish endeavors, experiment
with every possible dislocation
of language, syllables allocated
by number, blissfully misassembled?
For instance, Glyconics: arithmetic
by unhinged word-spinners! Elucidate,
please." Silence. Erato's disconnected.
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