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Dolce for Niente
Masterly, the slow drone of urban drill
batters all our precious stills, hanging
the infant in our ears and watching
its diseased imagination spill across
The Perfect Tarmac
Mouths are locked, who will rob us
Our stately spew? A Spanish Pose? A Proud Pilot?
Pedestal Peter? Or Delicious Asassin?
These blocks are a happy carnivore
with built in blades and a grinning spear,
full with handcuff clocks and neat lies.
A fat picture of spating drudgery
to pull the stab from statue eyes,
And belly to the cold iron on the hot hill of
screaming and siestaring in each socket as they rape the "strange"
And I sit
because I'm only another one
But with a flared angle
and a flowery spangle
pulling both ways
and bleeding between the two
go as you please.
I do.
T.M. Arnold 1991
