Deceptualism

Every poem is a liar, a fake accompli,
None more so than the beautifully brave.
Verse dissembles power by resembling truth,
But only the righteous creator
And the self-righteous proclaimer
Of the righteousness of the creator's verse
Are ever really deceived. Power is not
Deceived. Power gets it straight, a gardener
Understanding that the beauty of the invasive
Is a weed in the plot of righteousness, whether
Power's a nativist trying to restore an Eden
Of timelessly indigenous botany
Or an artificialist hedging end-shaped
Oases of bonsai potted paradise. Power is
Not amused. The creator remains
Bemused, but that's because again nothing
Got created, ever, least of all by such creative
Types. We're none of us poetry, all typists.
Every atom's clinamen annoys us, swerving
Flies inside our eyes. Clever
Universe to invent an inventive system
That exploits each honest liar for a host,
Heavenly hosts of undead angels arguing
Over whose deadly parasite's the best,
Most moving, most important, best dressed,
While God and no-God time rejoices
In rust and moldy gusts of infectious laughter.