Effigies of the remnant, that last August.
C’est une ville des Volkes. From Grecian
panoply of opened arms to closed wallets.
Where all is in chains and ink is counted by
the volume. Caged Earth, my captive park,
as a scorned resident in a French hospital,
bulbs of ever budded lotuses, tattoos that
flower youth’s rib cages and puddle’s spit.
As Swift saw scholars, as our pens see us,
that effigy, that city to salve Plato’s problem.
As Dr. Johnson schon uns sagte, veteres
sumus nunc – plays all spun, webs all shown.
That storm of marble we tempted from the
bowels of our beastial cries, our sins all
tipped into raping of Demeter, no grain in
store, but the merchants have stock and the
writers have oil to burn.
I have never been to New York City. Beastial is not misspelled.