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Cyclops 336
The loafers of ceremony with their power of speech
Beseech us to distinguish our makers from artists
Whose mother is this what finds itself affecting
the bloody hand the jaw of a fly that assembles thousands?
The moon waits to receive them
Your father, your uncle the brains of a nation
Now plunge us into departure
Our names reflecting our stakes. Carrying these
We trudge toward this metropolitan crucifixion
This exhibition of execution, this
Phenomenon of late distinction that we
The living get sitting meanwhile gathering
Ahead illuminating the citizen-savior
Who knocks down the morning and unzips the day
and discovers its hidden mathematics.
2 comments:
I love missing features. Their absence often says more than their definition can. Blame it on lighting or sloth it's always going to be intriguing (THAT'S what's in store).
Of course, there is always the element of sloth involved in everything I do- if it isn't easy, I no longer wish to do it. In this case, however, it is also the struggle (aha! another contradiction!) in searching for ways to suitably adapt the description of the cyclops. ("One eye, no illusion-that you get with two,...." sorry, Steven Sondheim.)
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