‘This is not an essay,
it’s a prelude to the next play you’re in,
when the organ-grinder’s monkey reaches for the moon,
but only sends it into a spin,
to be caught by the night watchman,
the keeper,
who screams “Streeeike One!”
and the stars sprout placards
in protest,
saying “No moon, no twinkle”,
and the horizon’s a wrinkle
in a jaguar’s skin’
writes the girl whose subject is surrealism.

What’s all this
nonsense then?
is not an essay!