Spliced by several cataclysms
Persephone is diced
and a Falcon
became our sexual freedom,
a longing for truth
that otherwise
should not be written
for an Owl is greater
than an Eagle
and an Eagle Owl is neither.
Roll the dice
your hand is gratuitous,
the ecstasy of the female
form
chessing as the leaves of
a book a Jazz hand
flamboyant at the carvery
a Pigs head, a la morte
de la morte, rings the
pain of parting
And dessert is an open wound
Sisyphean, Dionysian
beyond the scope of words
we should paint or photograph
this Shakespearian moment
as feeding our culture,
as being its downfall.
Ballerinas dancing, balancing
the table on our laps
a twist of fate
as a die is thrown,
a finger points a la asymmetrical
vaginas pivoted West,
pirouettes through pork
and sherry trifles
Apples fall to the floor
and bread is soaked in wine
and whiskey.
The dancers' beauty by some
implicit chemistry alludes,
allegorically to a guest
masturbating then spurting
onto bread
fickle sliced
by scissored hands.
By luck, as near intrinsic
as truth
to the duck and mushrooms
vinaigrette, salsa and
oranges soaked in white rum,
for the steel of an
Achilles tendon
feathers Apollonian
A stage, a theatrical performance
via CCTV
slipped into shadows by
covert snappers
for Flickr and Youtube
Facebook or Twitter,
Art is consumed like a
Jackal at a lamb
and art's traces are sold for
greater monies
than to put this poor project
beyond the realms of imagination
borrowed, begged or stolen
bruised or finished by the
ups and downs
of inflation.
We must only see with adequate
eyes
and enquire with open minds
to witness the truth
we cannot escape
that we are the prisoners
of our own devices.
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