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A Poem in the Young Grove City Collection


Don't expect the indirect attention of the grinding glass bile in the pit of a swinging stomach,
Or suspense from the mouths of biting criticism forced down a bending throat.

The television grabs me by my t-shirt lapels and poses:
"Does she walk?
          Does she talk?
                    Does she come complete?"

And I:
          She walks.
                    Like an Egyptian."

That centerfold angel eighties I remember.
That Eurythmics Culture Club Toto androgyny.
That Pet Shop Boys ABC Wham! synth pop.
The refinement of Punk
The New Wave

Now we're waving from atop an alternative crest.
Dissonate voices in the freedom of random notes free from snappy sop,
but dripping with irony.
Hell, our shoes are laced with irony.

Now when everyone I know is gay
Anyone whose insight
and realize Rome's alight again,
Vesuvius is firing up
Someone's knocking at the Bastille.

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