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Peacock: ragged robbins for the curtain call |
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Wrapped in ribbons on the trailer door |
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Carved initials in a concrete footstall |
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On the imitation marble floor |
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We're the boxtop admissions and their throwaways, |
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Strewn across tobacco roads |
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With their wormwood shots and their snake oil plots |
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Drunk sheepshank con men and their sycophants |
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And I often wonder if Ive already died |
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[Tiger] |
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Out at elbows by the encore |
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But there's a citadel inside |
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Where I'll go and shape my heart like yours, |
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As you shape yours like mine |
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Where we're the spiraling arms of all galaxies |
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And we're the microscopic sand |
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Suffering from delusions of ungrandeur on middling display |
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Beside the Cardiff giant with the alabaster eyes |
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I often wonder if I've already died, |
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Or if the 'I' is an unintelligible lie |
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Off we flew like swarms of hornets |
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'Woken up' from winter's rest |
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To colonize with plastic pulp |
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Our neighbor's perfect paper nest |
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While all year round potter wasp |
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Has buzzed her unhinged song: |
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You can hear its creaking in our floorboards: |
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Megalomania's only mania if you're wrong |
