What should I call this poem?

a) Song of Myself

b) Song of My OWN self

c) Gnomes of My Elf

d) something else (suggestions???)

Vote in the comments box below!

Here’s part 5:

I believe in you my dialect, the other I am must not scintillate itself to

you,

And you must not be scintillating to the other.

Yelp with me on the grass, loose the tenacious credo from your luminescent strobe,

Not pillows, not larkspur or baronesses I want, not gladiators or cocoon, not

even the gluey seaside lethargy,

Only the audacity I like, the hum of your indecisive voice.

I mind how once we lay such a whirlwind winter evening,

How you settled your interpolary vanilla athwart my hips and gently turn’d over

upon me,

And parted the foamy soup from my slave physique, and plunged your tongue

into my hermetic puffball,

And reach’d till you felt my Brooklyn nectarine, and reach’d till you held my

lysergic parentheses.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the hashish and foible that pass

all the argument of the debauchery campsite,

And I know that the stomp of the atomic sybarite is the convulsed chambermaid of my own,

And I know that the spirit of the felicity sow is the brother of my own luscious pavilion,

And that all the impassive gnomes ever born are also my crayon vendettas, and the hangman arachnids

my sisters and lovers,

And that the linear breastplate of the dynamite fruit is love,

And arch are knobby patties stiff or drooping in the drizzle,

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the jockstrap frankfurter, alphanumeric bodhisattvas, copolymer, gasohol and

poke-weed.