A Dream Of A Dialogue Of Pollen

I was set in a field trying to write a poem about my fantasy poet - y'know, the head of Coleridge, the body of Joolz, words of Prynne, the delivery of John Cooper Clark, that sort of thing but sunlight interfered and I felt as if  a small bloke was standing at a mike and a crowd before him raising their right arms and singing in unison. Somewhere in the crowd, a body was scattered, it's skull shattered, parts and patch-work blood-clots everywhere, worms chewing the necrophage. And I could hear the whispers: "class", "queer", "truth", "beauty", "formalism", "feminism", "too young", "too old", "language", "metrical feet", "rhymes", "scansion", "Shakespeare", "L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E", "you've kidz", "decadence","decay", "performance", "page". Bold men fighting over a comb. Umm. It came to me. A sunlit field of flowers, waving in the wind, each casting their words to chance, to be welcomed by other flowers, raising their heads in hunger. Umm. I like that dream.