Someone's trying to untack
the upholstery. I am brass,
nestled deep in the frame.
The frame is fir, Norwegian wood,
blonde as the leather is black --
sable manskin, dyed
Past the Ethiopian. Oh, Necropolis!
We adorn thee in Pottery Barn's
most demonaic collection:
Onyx, vermillion, and an oil painting
of the far shore
of the River Styx.
A conversation piece
should be silent; alas
they are arrayed on Chiron's raft
In pale blue satin
Restoration finery, their jibber jabber
audible to a tagger
commissioned with painting graffitti --
murals on the Matachin Towers
among the great round tanks --
A petrochemical stench,
grim and unavoidable,
suffuses the town of Martinez.
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