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on account of my dear friend Marcé , young gentleman of leisure.
"let us get you
cleaned up a bit..." he says,
"heroin chic is so passé, and besides,
vomit and blood stains
can be simply a fright
to explain away
in certain company."
OH the wine affixed itself finely
to the body wholly
amongst the glittering multitude dapperly
as the evening stoked languorously on,
blunted slightly about the edges,
but an impalement still, of opulent design.
autoluminescent of the life
that you shall not live
nor understand fully.
air of a debutante,
the sheen of this place
offends something of my sensibilities.
high dominion of ancestral veerings
kindly in its own way, reckon,
yet bellicose to the touch.
"....& listen here, your high sentence," he says, "lacks authenticity,
your accent is a thing
straight out of the gutters of Guadalajara,
and your French, O darling,
think less Valéry, more Marcel
Marceau,
Au moins une quinzaine de jours"
because you see, 14th century silk damasks insist
that we keep up appearances
& so
the body tenses
for further retribution
and the brain is peeled
and breath is held
and breath is spent
& so close the confines that confine, and yet
a hell that was heaven sent,
where perhaps we might make a time
to mind the manners that we find.
spare your javelins further wholesale.
these expectations call me coward and would have the right of it.
having, for some while, managed to persuade myself
of a myriad of derangments and delusions.
having now plumed the depths of this conformity, i break off,
& steel myself to new lashings of promiscuity
between the unreal particulars
of what is real and what is the living peculiarity.
and as if by voodoo
a chandelier falls
to kiss the candelabra.
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