The Shoemart Chronicles
I
In the worlds of fun I see only irony:
by day masses call a man Jeremy, Jemaina by night-
crumbling green rubbers stomped on weakened dirt rite-
hands hugged closed over his chest, indeed money moves man
to dance.
Shelled by turning out poor, they armor him shame.
Jose calls the great mass laugh and pinches her mate
as the dawn breaks in the eating of guts.
A sham lord talks although in whisper-like stance
and as the mic he holds places a lance over everyone's call,
the light shatters the middle area of the scene.
A call for Sydney, the crowd screams.
II
The conqueror sticks a leaf
on plain abandoned laces which paint a collective
shape of milkshake too brewed to evaporate
into a sky-eating dragon who is a picking to and fro
metaphor for the the glareless lights passing by
the word-wrought mail a string attaches to another
strip of string that downright links
a missed flaw to another
conqueror's very last unleaded land's head.
Everyone bow!
III
Petra speaks: imprison him, I do not like his bow
No Petra, let him do what his heart can't dare, let him bake
if that's what he wants lest he kills us all to pursue this case.
Let him mark another parlance politics.
Bring party scripts, instead, to grace her concealed daydream
of TV-making. Pedro is leaking. Let him drip.
Dry his only strand of dipping second for second a management
of time in a role of being Salud's ship captain, and all
in between the shakes of her dull pale saccharine.
Set this up, Petra, to feel service as the open-ended alibi.
Petra responds in dejavu: imprison him, I do not like his bow!
In the worlds of fun I see only irony:
by day masses call a man Jeremy, Jemaina by night-
crumbling green rubbers stomped on weakened dirt rite-
hands hugged closed over his chest, indeed money moves man
to dance.
Shelled by turning out poor, they armor him shame.
Jose calls the great mass laugh and pinches her mate
as the dawn breaks in the eating of guts.
A sham lord talks although in whisper-like stance
and as the mic he holds places a lance over everyone's call,
the light shatters the middle area of the scene.
A call for Sydney, the crowd screams.
II
The conqueror sticks a leaf
on plain abandoned laces which paint a collective
shape of milkshake too brewed to evaporate
into a sky-eating dragon who is a picking to and fro
metaphor for the the glareless lights passing by
the word-wrought mail a string attaches to another
strip of string that downright links
a missed flaw to another
conqueror's very last unleaded land's head.
Everyone bow!
III
Petra speaks: imprison him, I do not like his bow
No Petra, let him do what his heart can't dare, let him bake
if that's what he wants lest he kills us all to pursue this case.
Let him mark another parlance politics.
Bring party scripts, instead, to grace her concealed daydream
of TV-making. Pedro is leaking. Let him drip.
Dry his only strand of dipping second for second a management
of time in a role of being Salud's ship captain, and all
in between the shakes of her dull pale saccharine.
Set this up, Petra, to feel service as the open-ended alibi.
Petra responds in dejavu: imprison him, I do not like his bow!
Labels: Sylvia Plath
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