Still Life...

Radio, Radio

Poems

Still Life:

This must be what I meant to tell you:
Nothing is nothing new, o my goddess, o my goodness
the pandemonium fits on the head of a pin
whose body is within the body of a poisoned
poison red moth.

Make that a billion pandemoniums, each the size
of a panic, an attack, the echoing decay; an idea.
Clouds of mothdust from around the gilded arch
as they hurl themselves against it… desperate ser.
They are breaking or broken. One good wing beats for both

- tail spin.

Over five billon served & still I have hunger & heart burn,
still my table is trashed, unset, still my booth too big.

Still church windows are made with no defrosters, still cameras come without safety witches

& a great pandemonium is still silently processing [word, food]
the still, static city. Outside the outskirts the leaky distillery
& the feral mammals, sipping, snarling & stumbling in a clearing where wild drunken roses sway like moths.
on ammonia.

in all of the photos my eyes are this color.

cerise – centered. sanguine outline.

Ben Doyle