(red 1)

How much contempt
can the melody hold?
What depth of disdain
for the moment, all told?
Should the author decline
to be nakedly known,
how can I then in turn,
take him on?

I’ll hear nothing more
from the lie that you are;
fussed-over hair
and a face like a car
If a murderers row
run away with the throne,
will the seat of my woe
stay unknown?

Do I believe
that a person like me
has the leverage at hand
to disturb any scene
but the skeins of my own
stupid-comfortable life,
with the world on the edge
of a knife?

How much contempt
can the melody hold?