Life is wilder than reality
blood tremors fly with running ghosts

We lie about the sailors, the dirt-bags, the poets, the past
and how to tango in crowds made of blushing shadow

We nurture the smooth planes of rough bones, and forget
that elephants think we’re hyenas

Most of all, we lie about art, we say that a dog pissing
on lamp-post covered in glowing moss, is art

And that his owner has never dreamt, of doing just that
on everything, all jobs, all pennies, any voice, any twitch

I can be contemporary for a while, even learn new ways to mate
but the first lesson the angels shaved the devil with was:

How to forget Van Gogh, how to be marionettes, instead
and eat with a sharp forked ulna, instead of a hand

We lie about what lures the heart, mockery of the savage lures the heart;
but nothing mocks an Ernst, your paint kills the canvas, creating
a dream from the war

Nothing changes a Magritte, windows of abstraction, painting new
eyes into the obscura, taking out the melting shadow, depriving chaos
but buying it champagne

I flip a coin near Paris, give Miami a casual wave, Thailand has good chicken;
but now, the coin flips me back to a tower of fools, the head jester
is drunk

Bull tigers rupture silhouettes over the western fields!

Old jesters are too wise, their wives have the eyes of full-knifed moons!

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