Forearmed is foredefeated,
a spragged illusion that had me forever
check the silver-leafed backing.
What seemed like a vermillion mirror of sea,
the work of rash gods competing over
nose-powder and light. Salient image
as tonnage of froth, the superficial pleasure
of being someone else for the day.
What wasn’t there cannot disappear,
so why regret that awkward kiss
over the smoker’s box
when you decided to sit and clean the turnips.
One employs colours in the afternoon glare
but my feelings remain diffuse.
Each memory from the same genre,
yet indistinguishable in the over-populated world.
Does it matter who can gauge the lapping dark
for you were everything once
returning to dead layer, a general of still life
hanging on the end of the dauphine’s stays.
Another Chardin in Need of Cleaning
1 June 2013