we can't but love it all
You stand cackling on my back while I watch her spine cry
we're dressed in bottomless nauticals
my head's an owl
I haven't space to see
you're the wrong way round
and the blackest of boxes can't make
up for her skin
we've been lost a long while: all of
ten minutes, and undisqualified
so qualified
but disqualified
for our ivory
for our rounds, which we grope
grope for the public
(that is their perception of our title, anyway...)
and we hold this small stage
in incongruous
harmonic chaos;
"alien meets exorcist,"
watering Bosch's garden.
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| Photography: Blair McTaggart. |
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