Muse, you’ve crippled us all. We are the Syphillites, the Old Arthritorites, the Cancor People.
We’ve empty batteries, and slumped sacs of potatoes, sketch pads, and silence. Always, insomnia.
We wince towards the winds and windows, the waifs and the welcomes.
For You, You’ve castrated our fingers, disheveled our spirits,
scrawled beards across our young smooth faces.
My eyes You’ve placed upon my arms, the walls, my mouth square upon my chest, nestled in my sternum
You, oh, well pronounced, whom has summoned You?
You were the Train, today, transmogrified, sanctified.
That ugly train, its magnificence coursed between two narrow tracks.
Augean slime, sweet mechanical streams, which swept one sea to the next
Alien language, these mundane, molding Monet moments -mettle to worship, to triumph.
These train travels, these glints glowing shadows on spreckled linoleums …musing in the half light.
You, You were the referential mania of the modern world.
sickly poetry, You were, haystacks, kandinsky, toilets, surface.
Chevrons, your grey blouse, and three black matchsticks with crimson caps.
Alongside three dusky blue razorblades, mirrors foreshadowing the fleuves, the floods,
up, up, down, down
The floors, they are so modern. The walls, lights, too, are modern. You spring chicken!
I am a madman here, I read the wind howling by, line by line. …I stretch my ears,
my shoulders are all submission,
but the vocabulary, tonight, runes.
And I summon prophets, sibylline waifs, oracles, rosetta stones and
rose nebulas to my aid
The walls, here, the ceilings are carpeted. It is Versailles. The stairs shine, but cringe, terse, nervous stars.
Where might I find my long coat? Will I be bound? Who descends, amidst spring spectacles?
Man traces reflected silhouettes back to the Wells, demure azure shadows.
A mess of brushed steel lace, crouching stiff beneath this gruff velvet chaise, worshipping
shoes, coins, chewing gum, pulp grain paper with proprietaires’ prenoms, satiate, elegant incoherence.
This is Lascaux, this is Manhattan, Babylon and Berlin.
Myrrh, jasmine, cognac and urine.
You are Duchamp, surface, the perennial, the permanent. These are your pews, pues,
your shelter, Haleine, florescent evanescence, wherein the precious bodily fluids drain.
Your powers, mystiques, Your myths, and morals, Your labyrinthine quais
Course us, beneath a spell amidst infinite eyes, on the walls, on the arms. On the walls.
Up, down, up, down
And down, again, again.