Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 13

for Alan Moore

Of course, my belief

in culture is a sham.

I’m mining this shaft,

nourished on red velvet cake

and scrubbing the live walls

with a ShamWow that

I squeeze for emeralds

like a wizard on holiday.

Don’t ask me to explain.

It would only force you

to turn on a television.

There is an outcropping,

a bitter pill hanging onto

the cliff of the universe

like an old icy tooth.

It tastes of burlesque and

Aqua Velva, soft shoe

routines and bent spoons, went

the way of the Andromeda Strain.

Imagine an unnamed finger

grew out of the heel

of your hand and froze there.