The deep-house beats fall
From the window – hit
sunbeams combing the heat
Fall down simmering streets
It’s royal wedding day – but I
Can only focus on this
bunch of dead flowers
Strapped to a lamp-post
The cellophane wrap flutters
Around the dry remnants
Framed by estates and hills
And glints from windscreens
I’m not saying something,
Shocked by the light’s irradiacy
The faintly dissonant organ
Of which echoes softly pour
The engraven wood, swung,
as a whale from a tackle
round pulled by gravity, and wave
to land with the force of
into the deck.
Ahab is here.
This argument, said King
is killing me. Remove it
from being. He looks rather thin
and eyes, that follow you round the room
rest on his cheeks, and the chin
So, with a shot, I cut the gordian knot
Right between the eyes.
Force is the king of reason, when it needs to be.
After the Soviet Union’s fall
The sign-maker was left with a bag of hammers.
The Sickles worked well as their namesake
But the hammers rusted in a pile.
And so they were left in a dustcorner
hammering softly the dust on their edge.
Each dress glimmered with the candles
And the underwear chafed, coolely, rawing,
the ladies who went to the crystal ball.
One became agitated as the clock struck
midnight and shattered her shoes
(sharing as they did the wavelength of the bell)
She ran –
But all the prince could find
was crystal shards, blood
and the body in the cold – suspended
by the rigid gown in the ice.