A Cliché With Feet of Clay

Posing for an album cover
with a lover by-the-sea,
a cliché and it reverberates
into infinity.

She retires to her private
quarters where she urinates
on flowers, white ones are the fleur
preferred. The common irritates

a woman so remodeled and
refined. You find her giving lip-service
to the loving after much
rehearsal. Does it make her nervous,

the pretension, and the tension
of soliciting dimension,
crossing into other categories
for an honorable mention.

Sentimental as a counterfeiter,
and "the way we were"
is closer to the way we wear out
any welcome. So much for her

and that re-scented derriere.
Who was pissing in her ear
when she was young. Imperious and
imposing, not unsung. I hear

the voice according to a state-of-
the-art recording, coming with
the studied air of any goddess
with a bank account. The mythomania

of the middle classes
with a self-involvement reaching
for the heavens. Less and less
are going into teaching.

The burden of their heavy mirrors,
do the bourgeois want your pity
or is everybody gravitating
in a naked city

to a bigger ego. The
magnetic subjectivities,
the watered-down humanities,
conducting our activities

the way a diva would. The
expectations are exaggerated,
the ego is accommodated.
"I have urinated

on the finest flowers in the
country." Is it compensating
for a second-hand pose. The flowers
die, a woman sitting pretty.