Descended
from a rumor
of classical
irony
filtered
through Pound
which sits
so high above wisdom
it appears
literary
and invulnerable,
engraved there
by the style
and reduces all
to an adversary
and runs a spit
through human
being
before it can cry
" Ouch! "
without revealing
who
the ironist
himself is
or what he feels
and in the end
becomes
its own captive.
That air
of amusement
(as if beyond
experience)!
Who can resist
that baffling smile,
that sang froid
(regarded
as the supreme wisdom)
that superior manner?

I without sang froid
mock myself:
" From man
o worm
you will extrude
the anti-worm! "

the anti-worm, vain
nasty
condescending. . . .
my gargoyle.

Leering bastard,
do you mean
to pursue yourself
to the bitter end?
Speak, counter-voice!