Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse — 
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..  
Open up —    
  
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.   
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.  
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.