M A R K S C R O G G I N S
The pictures no longer tell tales,
nor do the symphonies give us
Broadway themes. I took pleasure
in the woven plaits
of your sunshine locks, subservient
firms once again took them around
a back alley
for a thrashing.
I am beautiful, you
are sublime, the prettiest thing
ever seen since Mont Blanc,
where blue-eyed skiers slide
down diamonded inclines.
We want to know intimately
how it punches each of us
in sequence out
of the self-same metal
flimsy substance, or how the boys
with their tattoo'd backs
and shining mandibles
can seize so effectually
the days. Blue eyes, shining
teeth and fingernails,
frozen on the windowsill
that separates the revolving mind
and its noumenal,
untouchable object. Play it
again, watch the play count
rise and roll over.
Fido is faithful, and
a dog. His rites consist
of fleaing, fetching, scratching, donning
an ossuary chasuble – flicks drops
of water from the wafer, and drops it
onto waiting beaded tongues.
Confronted by the polished black
of the maze's wall, Captain Modernism
uses never before suspected super-powers, turns
to where her rescuees find themselves
snuggled around the fire in bespoke
upholstery, brandies warm, cigar alight.
Like a picture, which no longer tells tales.
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