The Grey Vault
A lighthouse zoomed Britain/U.S. forlornly
its beach sunk skyscrapers fishermen work
the sea, turning (silver?) blue waves into a lush
meditation on self-sufficiency –––
Clouds become planes bombENG wavy black
sand. Scattering body parts full of tasteless tea
and rum; swifts hover over the gift carnage.
What is a seaman’s oar compared to cultuur?
Strings of dancers follow the bombs, heavenFall
angels in the dolphin ballet (Circe cannot touch them!)
while pigs sit doglike as the reels show crawling
ants in Old World graffiti, slums of Mercy:
Spanish, French, Dutch, British + American…
the lightHouse burns, nuclear waves
drop swifts from their time-travelling nautical
flight –––
The black cradle cocooned in cheap Progress.
$2 dollars an hour Versace FABric. In another
sea, Grecian urns crack along with crickets and frogs.
Camera oil; reddened brown; apocalypse queers eaten
again and again in The St. Barts Grand Tour.
I love the dreadlocked child; I kiss their forehead
and we both live for Dolce & Gavvana as young ghouls
snapshot our jewels
& dreams souls. It is the photography of dope/ the
closure of nativity; beaches blacken into silk
white footprints beneath a mushroomed sky of
haute couture
reflected in the blue sea, in the spotless
side mirror of Mercedes
the forlorn eyes of fishermen teachers
and the Cyclops-media inside helicopter towers.