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George Square


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


I
 
Buchanan Street; god strums a cheap guitar.
Vaginas grow wet at clashing chords.
The primitive civilised.
 
From the city square I sense
false profits,
zigzag philosophies.
The familiar falls mysterious!
Men utter reds, women yellows,
shadows of gallantry, romance that's not romance,
heavens monotone, depths lilting.
From the memory of music to the music of memory,
 
architecture floats (countless eyes of one)
inside of which right becomes left
and left becomes right.
A lack of structure itself a structure.
 
On a wooden bench
sits an old woman in black furs,
she looks like a time traveller,
engaged in a kind of conversation (in a silent way)
in tune with nothing in particular,
in tune with not being in tune.
She looks like she knows it is not enough to know.
 
A fat man eats a peach, down his chin the juice descends,
a young couple fake an old school nervosa
and dream of opposites and valentines.
The old pass without knowing they are old.
Falter the coffee cup minds,
rebounds a fog of saxophone,
from rejection as acceptance to acceptance as rejection.
 
All around I hear
a churning of things divided by the fact they are the same,
minds that mimic movies,
people that have never heard the sound of their own voices.
 
I feel like taking a train to somewhere,
anywhere.
 
II
 
From pale white bodies red flowers blossom,
men dressed as women pose as shamans,
ritual clowns eat excrement.
 
Ever since God turned my ankles I have limped,
passing a young man repeatedly throwing Finnegan's Wake at a wall,
call me Hermes as I walk unnoticed,
through a myriad of arches
emblazoned with words such as liberty.
 
Far past these art deco fantasies, these irresistible acidities,
these shadow Juliets, these clown-face Romeos,
pieces of a truth must oscillate.
 
Some claim to believe in nothing
and yet there is no such thing as a nihilist.
In all this metropolitan mysticism
anyone can find something to love.
Between the crowded heart and remotest mind
the tangible must move.
 
Middle aged upper middle class women
flutter their new eyelashes
and fantasize about Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
Within, all is cenotaphic,
and we who count these hours and days
shall end in mistranslated time.
 
There are varying degrees of greatness to fakeness,
meteoric residues, crevasses that rise.
There is shadowed flesh, sun-burst bone.
There are things that go unmirrored,
bogus policemen that bumble to and fro,
cosmic offices, their windows aslant,
traffic that never starts or stops,
museums that house the indefinable.
Faint traces of the pre 21st century naked.
 
All you that conquered death, arise.
There flourishes a faintness, talk of a subsection,
an unknowable subsidiary.
Instruments instrumental in worlds without instruments.
 
III
 
I see the day when everything appears motionless
as a sheet over a face that is not,
as a locked iron gate to a terribly large mansion,
as a frozen train track in a Russian winter,
as a broken clock on the face of a tower.
 
But when you look at it, nothing is motionless.
This is the tyranny of atoms. This is the laughter of the sphinx.
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