“A Spirical fire escape pierces my side
And ninety shining shoes trample brass-tinged ribs.
(Panic tastes like iron on forty-five flapping tongues
And the wedding hasn’t yet begun).
My fingers crack on greasy cubes
Twenty-six symbols that slice and burn
A flaking callous, twitching knuckles,
Weeping geneology and a fear of cats.
My eyes ache with a pixel rash, and this chair
Will not tilt back.”
And he says:
“If these are all the sad songs,
And that was all last month,
Then this is dead titanic irony;
An open-plan Arc de Triomphe.”