In the view stretching like a long
tumbling lawn from an expansive
Henry James' novel, we will Hart,
undoubtedly arrive at a not so
satisfactory conclusion as to whether
the Art is in the metrical precision,
i.e. that one promotes descriptive
design and cold intent, or whether
it is the short but tense vocalisation
of a HD that has the economy
of a walnut, but the ambition
of a Pantheon.
In the long run, leaving the
rambling dawn from a repressive
rhyming James Elroy Flecker poem,
dragging our ears through the mill
and plugging them with daffodil
We emerge in the clearing of a morning
blessed with the 21st century
the shock of an espresso
like the refusal of an ATM machine
like the tongue on the portrait
of a coke cup, touching the arching rim,
full to the brim with fizziness
of fractal derivatives, a vernacular
taunt of what's up, what goes up
goes down, and in the vista, we see
the millpond still of innocence
before the frontier of numbers
as they line the horizon across
the breadth of the universe
we feel unable, incapable,
like the honeymooner at the
Niagara Falls, we are rendered
impotent by the complexity
of our ignorance, as it forms
and crystalizes into technology
that sends us to Coventry.
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