self-demonstration fail

A sample, you ask. A specimen. Girl
/woman I'm just that guy! Oh, Man,
I'm on
my own plane
with discomfort galore, 
in a seat so economy-false,
I score! A solo poem boner 
and working it all for all it's 
subjectively valued at! By my lights 
tuned low and base, the better
to conjure a specter spectacularly
by its shades, these days 
I seem to be id
more than ego, and tact
has put on a cape, flown out
to fight crime as has been its wont,
frustrated in nicks of time where it went
to lark and stunt. Proved vain. Insufficiently
tipped! Ta-da! I've arrived! Where is it?
Where's the wrong I intuned, tuned into
afar and shot straight to the source
of disturbance? Har har  
Just slipped out the back! It 
was never here, you fool. Got
the wrong side of town on tap for such pule 
as your puerile jejune superego pretends
as occasion to make someone else 
hold one's beer. Boom intone into
consequence. And 

Just so! Like that! This poem has
turned, and is not even hintily now
about dicks or sex, or by-products
best kept upon chests locked in hope
of some future conquest of a socio
cultural storybook kind. I, the prince!
You, the virgin whore with defiant
eyes, saying "you call me WHAT?"

Oh. Sorry. It's a joke! I lied, what
you can't take a lie for a joke? Laugh away,
fun one. I just keep popping off like a jukebox
whose singles are all novelty, no pop or jive
groove, no symphony, and no sympathy
do I have to drop dimes on such traitorous tips
called in from dives. I keep puling out such
sickly sour smells 
in vividity tense, into intent forms. 

I shape them to purposes vast
past norms. It is just, 
just a touch,
just a touch too warm 
or discourteous, 
perhaps! To indulge
in such absurdly lewd
displays of proesy 
prosody posed as whimsy 
goes. Self-urge to enact and create,
fulfilled! Now reenact, recreate the scene 

revisited for hate/love right/wrong 
plus bile and spleen, sprained 
brains, all boiled as par in a kettle 
of course, contained in 
society's mind, to society's 
shame. Take pains as you please.
I am just that much 

Inclined to this plane. 

And you would not believe 
the contemptible ease 

with which I maintain 
such slovenly slut-about 
and sleaze, winking in 
implication and out 
like the breeze.