(for Marie-Lydie Cabanis Bonfils)
Sheet glass backed by mercury and tin, Murano mirrors
Calibrate the weather accelerating altostratus until cloud-
Free, pollution-free I pause languid in solarium among
Potted palms. Afternoons glamoured by dash of gold
Dash of bronze. Cut fabric to pattern: mouth 1 and 2
Cheek 1 and 2, face 1 and 2, masked and following sister
To Sidon where she'll save from burning the sacrificial
Bull. I pose on Al Qualaa hotel's terrace kohl-eyed, lilies
Braided in my hair. Stolen from over-growing at the pond
They witness the hydra budding and biologically immune.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.