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11/28/2009 7:22:41 PM
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Indeed indeed it is growing very sultry The indian feather pots are scrambling out of the room The slow voice of the tobacconist is like a circle Drawn on the floor in chalk and containing ants And indeed there is a shoe upon the table And indeed it is as regular as clockwork Demonstrating the variability of the weather Or denying the existence of manu altogether For after all why should love resemble a cushion Why should the stumbling-block float up towards the ceiling And in our attic it is always said That this is a sombre country the wettest place on earth And then there is the problem of living to be considered With its vast pink parachutes full of underdone mutton Its tableaux of the archbishops dressed in their underwear Have you ever paused to consider why grass is green Yes greener at least it is said than the man in the moon Which is why The linen of flat countries basks in the tropical sun And the light of the stars is attracted by transparent flowers And at last is forgotten by both man and beast By helmet and capstan and mesmerised nun For the bounds of my kingdom are truly unknown And its factories work all night long Producing the strongest canonical wastepaper-baskets And ant-eaters' skiing-shoes Which follow the glistening murders as far as the pond And then light a magnificent bonfire of old rusty nails And indeed they are paid by the state for their crimes There is room for them all in the conjuror's musical-box There is still enough room for even the hardest of faces For faces are needed to stick on the emperor's walls To roll down the stairs like a party of seafaring christians Whose hearts are on fire in the snow. David Gascoyne
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