The New Stanza

Here's a rough draft for a poem... actually, it's one poem in a sequence, all of which follow a certain stanza pattern that I'll let you figure out (keep your eye on the semi-colons). This is, again, a rough draft, basically a first draft -- it gets quite clogged at the end, and the opening line is kind of a clinker, and I'm distrustful of the rhetorical conceit in the middle, etc. etc. It's from the same file the shory from below is taken. Some of the lines might carry over to the next in your browser... sorry. By the way, the new Radiohead album is great.

Not assured of the hedonist’s rapture, or the safety of guiding ropes;
he has a normal name otherwise, nothing to suggest television,
drinks too much perhaps, is over-studied for literary conflagration;
the list, otherwise, grew blurry, once including: “syncresis,” “allotropes,”
“Marxism” (also, “Leninism,” “Stalinism”) and “individualist”
for contrast, also “humanism,” “realism” (vs. “social realism”), madly “Darwinist”;
in Vancouver, these are just the names of punk rock bands, all
pant-legs to rumbles, prismatic (where stateside they would be “dualists”),
paragrammatic, encoding the revolution by frobbing syntactical
dials, forgetting, before the moderns, we claimed Bliss Carmen for “ourselves”;
Williams would have loved him, as likely Pound, Zukofsky, and Marianne
Moore, his neighbor, but for us he’s Ashbery-meets-Gibson (William, not Mel),
Philip K. Dick channeling Spicerian Lenny Bruce through old coffee radio of
insomniac Chomskyite nites, perfectionist, though perhaps no Gautier (Theophile)
in form—a world without embellishment, sans vorpal swords, only contacts.