7th Collage of The princess
“You George, are rather insolent, you know.”
And insolence like that demands isolation
As it attempts to appear worldly
while the dog star rages
and the dogfaces sigh among uranium casings.
. . . But ruthless masters know only ruthless answers.
As Caligula did, whose horse was a senator
and who finally turned to his sisters for comfort,
as if blood is all that can comfort blood
and death the only end to the fear of death.
(Outside, on the streets, the pilgrims feed on the crumbs of the arrogant.
At the edge of the field
Tiny vacuous imbecilic women
And pufferous onerous imbecilic men.
who had finally caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror
As he held a daguerreotype of stiffs en regalia
in a theater of kunstlers
who issued the dread sigh:
“I have lifted the color off of everything!
White drifts whiten under marzipan clouds.
The snow is bright against the gray of the sky
but does not make a show
of its alabaster combs, or the extravagant impresarios of its vanilla.
There, cubes of winter are glued together again
till there is nothing at all in the refrigerator
of the world
but the corpses, in gold foil, of a million bluebirds.
"Oh dear,” said the princess,
( I remember her enlarged blue eye of despair. . . .)
What is love if we are empty of hope?
What is hope if we appropriate desire?”
She spoke as white runes
fell from the sky onto her lenses.
In slow motion they fluttered and melted there
and she could not read the writing on their
In a corner where people rarely look
dark figures spill
into a darkened room.
The wind is still.
It is the shadow of noon.
In the palace the children comb out strands of their hair,
to rain on the poor beneath their windows.
In the little blue parlor across the hall,
caresses a red piano,
reciting little roundelays of his myopia
at the gallows.