TITIAN'S NEW PAD Poem by Durs Grünbein

Heaving with throw cushions. All the ornamental fish are yapping
Behind thickened glass, in water effervescing like Alka Seltzer.
Algae fan themselves with fresh blood. Peace returns to the aquarium,
At the expense of a few chewed up fins. The guppy stoutly dreams.
A pair of stockings plus garters is writhing at the foot of the sofa,
A portly cigar, with cummerbund, blows smoke rings from the massy ashtray.
Kilims, ankle-deep, unroll clear to the windows, like red carpets.
In golden palettes all over the apartment, glutinous colours
Are melting to the likeness of a rose, moon mountains, phlegmons -
Female nude here, Old Testament scene there. Three mirrors per glass-fronted cabinet
To cover your retreat into the labyrinth. Kickshaws on the mantelpiece,
Faience pottery and candelabra flatter the dependably childless denizens,
Smiling from framed photographs on tallboys, cruise snaps, captain and crew.
On the wireless someone with a nasty monastic cough is reading the Decameron,
Though only the afghan hound, blending in so nicely with the carpet tassels, seems to be attending.
‘Shall I describe it to you, sweetness? The music of the spheres... Faked?
I suppose your orgasm was faked too? Don't take my word for it then, ask the fishes.'