The Island of Love

1 November 2014

Vague human masks pipe out a
sweet coverture.
The isle is swarmed over by their
bird proxies

pillaging while seeming to
bestow the crystal wink, all such
imitation
takes its aspect from nature.

Chisels shape a loaf of rockwool,
chipping at a coast
song bandages.
Tulips streaked black

jostle amidst deepest clefts –
and to appearances flop.
Silver balls roll away.
So intervene at last: stems

thirsting for their flowers, bleep
after five seconds,
inside polythene they crisp with
emergency hydration:

the syrup drawn off is their ichor
winks clear and metered.
What increase,
what a good package, what joy –

once he pierces the spongy pink
economy.
Dress this table perhaps. Truss
one snipe or plover each,

divert from lip to cistern lip
until his pursed mask collapses.
Leaving nothing
for it but to trill, trill sort-of,

nothing for it
but to make light of
spoliation, of its spillage
slathered on the island of love.

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