Sunday, 3 April 2011

Another Beautiful Dud.

Behind the panes of this great glass demonstrator
Lies the trek between ten foot walls, adorned
with self-designed salad for the eyes-
so deluded and so unhealthy,
Yet so apparently necessary,
On the trek deserving all my scorn.

I pass a pompous welcome sign,
proudly displaying governmental credentials:
"This was taken, and all this granted.
And all you see that's residential
Comments on your existence"
Yet as my feet chase each other between the walls,
All I see in every instance,
Are rows and rows of pretty pictures-
Each the work of a pornographer,
Each with a prostrate philistine lost in adulation.

Just pictures:
Barren countryside,
Coppices, barns, strictures,
Barren women,
With breasts overflowing from the nothingness of how they were justified.
"Another Beautiful Dud."
(c. some irrelevant time)
Oil and thoughtlessness on canvas, surrounded by wood.
If this were art then the medium would be blood.

Further along come flashes of disembodied colour,
"Man, this lad must've suffered."
- Being paid for a botched white wash?
But still a prayer from a philistine,
As he worships at this voiceless shrine...
I pass on, approaching a rabid rush.

As I come to a brooding face,
I'm caught with the stare
of a long-cold monarch.
The colour of his flesh has faded toward blackness.
Immortality, I assume, was the reason,
Yet the atmosphere has committed treason,
The last of his legacy evaporated to the air.

(c. Now) my imagination on mental illness.
With half closed eyes -
The kings face becomes mine -
The colour bleeds from my cheeks -
And the corridor reeks -
Of nothing at all.
Here comes the fall.

My blood pools on the ground,
And seeps up the walls.
The beige and glass become my scarlet surrounds.
Fervently my paw dives into my pocket,
The content mauled,
Before it re-emerges, with incendiary intention,
And I become the mains socket.

From my fingers- come a flame,
From the flame- comes ablaze,
As all my blood just fuels a fire
And the ascendant time to expire,
With my flesh melting into the ground where I belong,
The breasts of the women boil their farewell song,
And the coppice burns as it surely must,
I find my only useful form:
As dust.

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