Vague human masks pipe out a
The isle is swarmed over by their
pillaging while seeming to
bestow the crystal wink, all such
takes its aspect from nature.
Chisels shape a loaf of rockwool,
chipping at a coast
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
the syrup drawn off is their ichor
winks clear and metered.
what a good package, what joy –
once he pierces the spongy pink
Dress this table perhaps. Truss
one snipe or plover each,
divert from lip to cistern lip
until his pursed mask collapses.
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.
The Island of Love
1 November 2014