Playfully Conscious, Wilfully Obscure

Flattery

To start, however cursorily
Stripped to skin and flesh
Fingernails and nerves and veins
And bespectacled, even
Myopic in more than fact
Wishing almost to remove even more
Not just sprouting hair
A chest or a scar
Or an average sadness

Lacking it would seem
Where surrounded by luxury
Almost imediately rebelling against the
Overwrought brain
Lost in itself
Pickling swiftly
Without a 21st Century direction
In the admirable or condemnable
Smiling chutzpah or earning power
Of maleness in our oddly infested, localised planet
They desecrate the winter here

Where is the mate for that indifferent soul?
F*** me, kitten
As we explore with a nod and a wink
Consciousness invading always
In its worldly existence, unable ever to do justice
To its, everything's vastness
Enormous in its uselessness, playfully
24 hours in a day
For some inescapable reason
Disorientating in its exactness
Its unnecessary precision
And eating and sleeping, too much, too long

Narrative, metanarrative or commentary
Come one, come all; roll up, roll up
A man is grinding to an undignified end
In front of your intuitive eyes
Though bound and printed by Picador books
So you can think, then, about me
If I'm gone
You can measure out my life in
Coffee spoons

shiv

Interesting title, to start.
I like the rhythm, the way words hang off the ends of sentences...
Think the fifth line could lose the words 'more than' to make it flow better.
Like the sound of 'an average sadness' too.
First two lines of the third stanza are intriguing and kind of humourous, almost reminded me of Michael Stipe.
The rest seems a bit disjointed to be honest...although your last two lines are the strongest of the entire poem I think and incredibily visual.

Insect Overlord

Aren't the last two lines here taken from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by Eliot?

More importantly though, I quite like this poem. Some very vivid imagery in the first stanza, and an excellent use of a wide vocabulary. Keep it up!

Flattery

Probably ought not to have bothered posting this, as it is so disjointed, unedited and, in several places, nonsensical. Pretty sure Michael Stipe wrote a song called f*ck me kitten, and the last two lines are indeed quoted from Eliot's "Prufrock", an old favourite from school days. I saw someone on this site using an Einstein quote as a tagline to the effect that the essence of creativity is hiding your sources well. I need to work on that(!)