Morose Lines on Making a Collage:

Why can art eer be wot it ought?
Being the back face of anything not wrought.
We being aught and seeing naught,
Or just inverted to be naught and see all,
The blank grope between thought, known and caught.
How far?

When can expression not expose all laws?
Forget all begotten and clamp time's maw.
Being and seeing all and nil
Knowing and giving away its laws
Or leaving them inside time's jaws.
To see, to be reversed in perversion,
Versions persisting in evasion.

Plaid prince, in prints of neon
Brash kiss, blood engendered Prince of this small kingdom.
Prince of phallus, bride of pulp and pith
Flapping its black dong off the garden wall.

But then is gone.
Alone
Along the garden wall
Forgotten or compressed, or barred under the prince's wand
And wadded into time's small hand
It stands,
Is branded with the prints of neon.
All along
Neon virgins parading in inversion,
Black dong
Black dong it stands.

In art, in arc of flat flowers growing past their bounds
In ink, in carbon and in paper flaps
In lieu, in place of recollection
Mere accumulation of the flowering lines.
Our lives
Our lives are Prince of neon yours for now.
What for,
What for remember we what black dong dropped
And rendered not, black dong black dong!

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