Bristol Central Library
The chair he sits in, like a burnished throne,
glows on the marbled fat librarian’s flesh.
Upstairs, through the door without,
insinuates the babbling of creche,
submerging the monomaniacs’ drone
and the profanities of louts.
insinuates the babbling of creche,
submerging the monomaniacs’ drone
and the profanities of louts.
The hipster who needs to blow his nose
snorts through all Eustachia his snot.
The paranoiac in his shell-suit seethes
and itches at a snow-capped scalpine spot
The sleeper, having woken, yawns and goes
through the circulating thieves.
Apollo’s been usurped. His temple’s now
a Pandemonium, or slough, or pond
where with spasms, signifying disease,
flail spiritual seekers in despond
in company with diverse clowns,
and harlequins, and chaps with fleas.
