Saturday, August 2, 2008

Discrete, Disgust; Disgrace?

Help me destroy what I need to not be,
smash these false constructions with a hammer for me
like poor sculpture: litter the floor of my studio-soul
with their remains, undeserving of form and space;
a waste to take it up and better dismembered.

Their fragmented eyes will look up,
shattered hands, fingers reaching out;
piecewise mouths scream, disapproving,
but objections ineffectual, they die,
last bald breath taken false as the rest.


Socially constructed, carefully designed,
the artists long since passed on, architects absent,
none present to see sordid fruits of their labors:
story-book blueprint sketch long ago laid forth
for price unknown, commissioned anonymously.

What money changed whose hands unseen?
Jingled coins silenced by sackcloth,
hands unclasped clandestine under table
passed the papers, drew the plans,
to erect romantic forms concretely.


Objectify me, fetishize me to excess,
so long as it breaks me out of marble inflexibility;
forsaking all lofty ideals, do what pleases best,
take these rigid mores in me to task
till they fail under strain of sweet sin.

After we lay atop their broken mess,
once we've done away with the remains,
scatter them as dust to the four winds;
ground to a powder we will reform them
in the image of freedom, our own.

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