The Perfect Metrical Verse
I insist, insist, this is a perfect verse,
written in the spirit of labor and theory,
where words are bricks and meanings are factories.
I insist, insist, it is perfect,
constructed from the blueprint of ideology,
each line a manifesto,
each pause a calculation
on the assembly line of consciousness.
I insist, insist, read closely,
here the self dissolves into signs,
here the concept dictates the hand, not the heart,
yet I insist, insist, it is perfectly human.
I insist, insist, it is perfect,
not from nature, not from impulse,
but from a grid of intention
where repetition is proof,
and proof is repetition.
I insist, insist, the poem folds itself
into itself, a diagram of thought,
a critique of desire, a rendering of slogans,
and still, I insist, insist, it is perfectly metrical.
I insist, insist, this is a perfect metrical verse,
each word a measured hammer blow,
each line a scaffold
holding the architecture of insistence.
I insist, insist—there is nothing accidental,
yet if you listen, you hear the unsaid dream,
a human voice filtered through ideology,
and still, I insist—perfect, perfect, perfect.
WoPoLi 
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