Tuesday, 25 February 2014

51. This Is No Metaphor

Hear through this place nothing play
Upstairs we are still all young poets now
Dressed inappropriately and acting thus
Stupid children

We don’t want to be here but want to be loved
Our silence has become the way of choosing this
Hiding the disordered systems that really are our lives
Anomalous & lurid

How much we enjoy critical theory even though
Whatever’s actual, that is really what is right – yes – oh
Please parataxis would be our choice – but it’s unstable
Just noise & fracturing

We feel fully hopeful & luscious, strange
At any feast we must deny ourselves & say “NO!”
Carry on wandering these magnolia painted corridors
Until we die 

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