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Date Posted: 18:47:08 04/30/02 Tue
Author: Porthos
Subject: After the Reading

After the Reading

The doors open into another world,
a world communicating a little secretly.
The sky flicks drops down and they hit
like needles pricking life on my cold hands.
Light is cut into, imprisoned in the chest
of the library standing haughtily across
the courtyard. Cement bars between
each square of glowing body,
the body of mother.
But what exactly is mother?
In Germany’s recollection of the 1920’s
the Bauhaus decided it would be a good idea
to entwine figure and form, to invent
a world where things did more than function,
they pleased.
A chair must not merely support the weight of a body anymore,
it must etch its own form into the eye.
Buildings, cars, tables, rooms:
carpenters must now be painters,
engineers poets.

God must have thought much the same.
Gears grinding beneath the scent of woman,
oil keeping the arms rocking,
a cathode ray tube making eyes that can caress
an infant bundle.

There is something about the color green
before the start of a storm. Tress like dreams
in the womb, a prophecy of things to come
when the axles contract.

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