Indeed indeed it is growing very sultry <br />The indian feather pots are scrambling out of the room <br />The slow voice of the tobacconist is like a circle <br />Drawn on the floor in chalk and containing ants <br />And indeed there is a shoe upon the table <br />And indeed it is as regular as clockwork <br />Demonstrating the variability of the weather <br />Or denying the existence of manu altogether <br />For after all why should love resemble a cushion <br />Why should the stumbling-block float up towards the ceiling <br />And in our attic it is always said <br />That this is a sombre country the wettest place on earth <br />And then there is the problem of living to be considered <br />With its vast pink parachutes full of underdone mutton <br />Its tableaux of the archbishops dressed in their underwear <br />Have you ever paused to consider why grass is green <br />Yes greener at least it is said than the man in the moon <br />Which is why <br /> <br />The linen of flat countries basks in the tropical sun <br />And the light of the stars is attracted by transparent flowers <br />And at last is forgotten by both man and beast <br />By helmet and capstan and mesmerised nun <br />For the bounds of my kingdom are truly unknown <br />And its factories work all night long <br />Producing the strongest canonical wastepaper-baskets <br />And ant-eaters' skiing-shoes <br />Which follow the glistening murders as far as the pond <br />And then light a magnificent bonfire of old rusty nails <br />And indeed they are paid by the state for their crimes <br />There is room for them all in the conjuror's musical-box <br />There is still enough room for even the hardest of faces <br />For faces are needed to stick on the emperor's walls <br />To roll down the stairs like a party of seafaring christians <br />Whose hearts are on fire in the snow.<br /><br />David Gascoyne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cubical-domes/
