Strut is never/neither
my settled social game
nor ruse.
Strut is in the bristle
of the eye, the ear, the fan
of the peacock’s
blown abuse.
No.
No …
I don’t know strut …
I don’t know strut
until I draw
and then …
it is no flaw
but ease of use,
the old confidence of flow,
that little bit of con with quill, with pen …
a feathered airborne con of thought
once pen-knife cut
and carved
at calamus.
Calamitous
my drawing now
if non-aero engineered;
it cannot find its lift,
won’t fly
without its strut.
No strut; no stuff.
Fillière © 11 12 2017
fillière 