THE SOLIPSISTIC KITCHEN OF FICTION

THE SOLIPSISTIC KITCHEN OF FICTION 

The Talk Talk bare in the solipsistic kitchen of fiction
is 'phatic' and my new motley fridge magnet letters contain
no question mark in the pack but back back back
in all directions the first qualification of Modernism

is still enquiry and furthermore wilful ignorance
is a sin. Meanwhile outside the fallen autumn leaves
are where bears have dipped their feet in pots of paint
and danced across the threshold of the paving stones.

Water clears its throat from the tap. Gunpowder was
only invented for fireworks and a firework is a champion
sperm nosing up blind to explode bright and wonderful
deep-sea creatures in the Ancient Night. The world is a

cool, bejewell'd marble snug in Holy Orbit suckling on
a mother sun. Supposedly there is soon to be New Atlantis
on the moon. The cure for cancer sustains your heart.
Somewhere a tramp drinks paintstripper to cleanse

the doors of perception, a drunkard attacks a wall on
an otherwise empty street, a policeman forces himself
to come with a gun. Hey salesman slow down with 
that fast-food. I don't mind waiting here for a year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

◄ HOPE

BONDING YEARS ►

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