‘Coquetry is a triumph of the spirit over the senses’ Coco Chanel
Somethings are too unlovely
to discover. the commonest toad
has its emerald articulations to suffer.
it has perhaps a comely defense, many pale islands of symmetry
coffer its gnarled loom.
Brown-nose girls in plaid stockings and glitter alice bands,
barter their subtleties
girls who cart Aurelius’s meditations in their thousand dollar
Girls with feet in tourmaline crocodile cuissardes.
girls who battle the ‘mean reds’ and blonde ramschackle
Though they falter on the nail that tacks the body to
its dull velvet,
everything in motion blunders along the
sweet and shiny substance of the morning churning.
at home in this kind of solitude, attended to by swans,
they say the light is different in each country,
about this they are wrong.
they say coquetry is the art that keeps civilization,
glossy and at canter,
about this they are right.
The world curves and flowers in its warp of cheap leather,
its deep knots of meat are byzantine amulets.
the world’s light is grainy,
the acanthine rain; its palinode to anxiety
it is an an aghast and unbloody gloom.
I hold out my wrist, i see a shy covetous
snake at home in its solitude,
groomed in mercy
purest animal in water, it
is flushed with hot corroding gold.
Though green the water that suffers the object,
the heraldic beast,
flits in agitation for a moment
and then proceeds to eat the palm,
It severs the weird apricot grease,
its ensconced brunt of letters and brass crosses
It swallows the singed flanges whole,
leaves the arm and blood of the body gaping,
pitted of speech , of volition
of impetus to even
soldier a tear.