On the end of poetry

curled with veined tongue twisted
and another thing - I will talk with three mouths
creep, clutter, tongue touched stutter trip tagged
lip lagged - the definition of stutter tongue, which tongue
forked around the oldest flames and

was I subtle?

Nowhere whispered another airy echo and ellipses contaminate
those enclosed spaces tripped parentheticals all of grammar
collapsing under its punctuated weight and
another thing

was I bold?

bluster tongued badmouthed bullish and big what say you to that?
In triplines stepped and steeped looking long and laughing with
even those
who laughed when the dark was first being born from nothing and the
seas of shadow were finding within themselves shades of slightest difference
and what is least noticeable is the movement of an eye as it
crosses a line again and if I built all poetry I would cast that eye and
spasm it across each page and every eye would spin like stuxnets spinners
and cycle until, gasping, no reader nor eater would clutch fork to tongue
so surely again, kinesthetics aside what hammer would hit
an unseen nail so hard on its head so was I bold, was I subtle, or
are you just too tired to notice anymore?