Your shiny white emptiness
Drips rabid promises
From each saccharine fang,
Your glittering emerald eyes mocking
The singular certainty:
This darkness and I must dance and duel
Til the factory of your perfect machine
Cannibalises me
Into the likeness of
Some True Form that bears
Some True Name-
My true name and form, uncodified by
bar code or trademark,
Long since discarded in the Solipsistic Terminal,
Amid the trains departing in perpetual abandonment
Of frail thoughts in white gloves and bonnets:
And you are the man reading his newspaper with a plain black coffee,
That most deceptively pedestrian of Pedestrians
Stopping at shop-lit corners to glare proudly
At this industrious gloom,
The strange, dry fruit of your mechanical loins.

You are a Captain of Industry, tucked safely into your
Pornographically polyester pantomimes,
Denying your provenance:
The sweet, sweat stench of earth-drenched hands.
It is their child you bear,
Milk-sour and thick in your belly, a clandestine Caliban.

Your craving to abort their essence
twitches at the corners of your eyes,
Beckoning that daring interloper, Ambition,
To penetrate between your oil-drenched thighs
To baptise you in steel and concrete
Behind the wheel, inside the cogs
Where you are laughing
Mad and empty
Like a string puppet
A death rattle
Conducting the shrill symphony of accruals and deletions
As your