A decade from now no one’s famous. Some
Earning a doctorate in leisure studies. A verse opera under no circumstance.  

I keep my mouth shut & tune in,  
Escalating with all my parts to inhabit opera’s received logica.  
I’m retracing what I think I’ve learned,  
Concentrating on song colors, naming obvious primes,  
 
Pushing the most indisputable among broken arts,  
The self, defiant, truculent.  
 
My self or my drink — or my aftershave — is lime Fanta  
Leaving me in an atomic infinitude.

My head turns, divided by leanings pertinent in several discomforts at
Once. 


Clockwise = my 2nd turning flushing two or more rationals into none 
Albeit with an amplitude of bobbing subheads.