...and enter my Trophonion, poet-trench. As a tactical manoeuvre, I divert from a
putative, ruthless plutocrat; refusing to squirm at his material behest! I develop a
new, elegiac geostrategy and Lokian persona; carefully establishing fresh
munitions and maskirovka. I transcribe in my spiritual journal as a fully-fledged,
accomplished pace-setter; a hard-core, Polyhymnian graphorrhoealist, in my
confessional, Poetic, Foreign Legion. I flex my newly acquired, versified ligaments,
as a lurid lynx on heat. I am a slick lexicographer, with insurgent tongue and
lissome feet. As Magaera, I am, now, a poetic gladiator; opposing the literati
megalomaniacs; fighting – introspectively – for a place on the pellucid, world
page, in diffusion of responsibility. My perilous, Russian Muse ignites my riotous
heart. Vladimir demands a forward-march! Plucking the pristine, mnemonic
strings on my allegorical, Pyrrhic victory harp. A fusion of instincts with
Mayakovsky incites my spirit. “To poetic battle!” he cries. “I am ready for battle!” I
reply. Insane as a Queen, I behead superfluous dick-heads! Striking of Dr. Death –
the subordinate Acephalite – for gross plagiarizing and V