The Rumble of Panic has undoubtedly taken this distinguished
Ensemble of mortals outdoors by the swimming pool, where
There was no Mrs. Robinson, only one-half of the duo,
That concocted this prodigious ballad for The Graduate.
Has anyone seen this divine, sardonic portrayal of human,
Astral bodies that have so timely invited Gerhard Scholem
To exercise his “soul sparks” so to speak—I mean migration
For the sake of lighting one candle to the next?
Here, the thoughtful distribution of “auto-eroticism” to this
Compressed, claustrophobia of a post-cubist, consent-like environment,
Where everyone repeatedly forgets to communicate to each other.
Eyes looking up, down, sideways for potential conversations.
Eyes wide-open, eyes shut so they can repeat the same exercise.
Eyes that are filled with reverie, benevolence, angst and suspense.
Whatever, except for his proclaiming, “It wasn't my fault!” Awesome!
High heels, an art collector, friends, bouquet of flowers,
Six-pack of beer, cropped on the right side while a Dachshund
Stands at the bottom edge of the picture
As proud, solid, and frontal as could be painted with near
Perfection in this imperfect world.
Democracy of fetishism is A Matter of Life and Death.
Who says he considers his addiction to his vision to be
His greatest virtue!
Was I there when he cried out for milk?
Or was it a sublimation for his mother's affection?
You tell me when the time is right
While one of him is running up to get his half-read novel up stairs.
Blah, blah, blah! Slight distortion of upper body
Rebels against the tilted floor that slopes even more
In the foreground. Yet no one notices the hangman in the middle.
Why should they?
It's a melodrama of a failed suburban lifestyle.
Awesome whatever 'cause the Toyger's eyes are as wide open
As his large ears. Is it time to square things off? I say
It's time to embrace this gradation of local sensation,
Phenomenon of erection that has hidden away the scrotum.
This double of triple representation of a marvelous bedroom
That promises [s]wings of desire. Or is it our version of
What Will Survive of Us is Love? How titillating!
There they're again cast in a modern adaptation of a Kafka
Play to be directed by Peter Greenaway.
I swear there's one obliging person praying for
Its forthcoming production. Everyone meanwhile agrees that
Here in this unsettling space the Chihuahua seems so pleased
To be standing on a magic carpet that leads to the ethereal
Red bedroom behind. It's Human Kindness.
Exactement nous sommes d'accord.
One simple stroke of green paint is capable of
Sustaining its presence in spite of the protagonist's
Psychedelic manhood in a trance of cosmic joy.
Hey, “If I am out of my mind, it's alright with me.”