Betjeman having a stroke

I have written few lines of poetry recently, and am not submitting to magazines etc., but was recently impressed by my idea of reading my own poetry as if it were music or musical, in a similar war that lines in a hiphop verse would be read with aggression, as if it were an angry accusation to someone. My results were amusing; my poem sounded gentle and genteel as well as, internal to romanticism, deconstructive. I will paraphrase that as ‘Betjeman having a stroke’, and may use that as the title of my first full length collection, be that self published or forced down the throat of the small press scene. In fact, Betjeman did have a stroke, the same year I was born, and poets – three or four of them – have recommended I read (more) Ceravolo, which I should do. Third generation New York School; seems mildly vacuous but has more energy than most. Here’s the poem (if I work out how to embed audio, I’ll add).

On the welding of friends

Style, I ask you for the cup,
we trace you with hands on
body and begin to dance the
date and after smoke, kiss,
to press to lips of silver,
the cup, as tomorrow’s due
cloth’s rent for corn bread
and varnish: swill moment full.
Spring’s at turns, have wife;
she’s beside a white jukebox.

I wonder, leaving theory asunder, quite what sort of lyric subjectivity might be missing here, and if the answer links to how my technique on display might completely lack artistry, which is fair in a few ways but may suggest victory anyway. So, I guess you might vote green.