Celadon Poem by michael oliver

Musing on the remains
Some sweet yellow crumbs
A drunk cappuccino clinging
A stain of consumption
This random of entropy
Decorating the not noticed
Everyday mess everyday pottery
Another snack past deserted

The exhibits are serene
Shown in silent display
Encased in self perfection
Ignoring themselves and us
Peerless in the isolation
Their sole reflection themselves
A whispered Celadon presence
Perfect diction in being

Levitating from the shelves
The air is questioned
Should you mould us?
Should we mould you?
A response is needless
The shape is all
The abstract of dialogue
A fiction of ideals

The white cafe wear
Subject to different display
Stacked then a performance
A humdrum of movement
No critique in using
The vernacular white anonymity
As it chats away
Through its fashioned life

The wan Korean aristocrats
Disdaining the protecting glass
What do they mean
With those delicate extras
The necks stretching out
To perfect the ratio
As knowing lips kiss
The self serving space

The space is seductive
The vernacular is sidelined
The synthetics of debate
A few written lines
But made is made
Wrought into a form
Brought into a life
Our background as commentary