Sepia-toned photographs of Anglo-Saxon dissidents
litter the crimson streets of a town that grieves its pity.
In revolutionary geology, we are standing proud and tall,
in the centre of eternity the comic-strip Brahmins
reproach a wealth of movement,
the statues out of sympathy betray such dead conundrums,
in resurrections stemmed from cemetery eyes, we see their charcoal sentiments
illegibly surpass a game of Chinese Whispers organized en masse.
Our theoretical physicists cannot handle the experimental equipment,
it breaks whenever they touch it. They ought to be treated to
plum pudding by a stranger, they should be made to
dream of a golden scarab. The loves of cabinet makers
defy the death of symmetry, the pawnbroker's nightmare
repels a time averse to time, tone-deaf miscreants pledge allegiance
to the treble clef, the opera singer's secret code evaporates
down a dead-end street where the pigeons are carnivorous and the hawks are pacifists
as they mock adhesive skies, belt out hymns to vacuums.
The artists on the Sabbath congregate at the cross-eyed café,
paper mouths regurgitate eulogies to rocks and scissors. Subjected to humanity,
tonight I will wear an abstract shirt and tie,
tonight the divas are going naked, tonight I will sleep in my clothes.