(for Ravanalona III)
Sun-struck by the Mad Prince I pace in white from port
To citadel, citadel to port my body made of machine-
Tumbled amber strung on fishing line. Glistening among
Oil tankers nobody knows I've ingested factory formulated
Bridal dye rendering me defenseless against string quartet
And bouquet toss. Antlers wrapped with roses I quarantine
With Ranavalona III's tender cuttings of Madagascar vanilla
Struck dormant by Strait of Gibraltar and Northern sun.
Greenhouse containers confine Bismarck Palm and Octopus
Tree as you place scissors in my hand, suggesting release.
"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.