crimson casket

outside the world of spins and lights the
happy take of joyous sight,
a blood-red matting sprawled beneath parade
of brilliant
facade:
pasty white and touched with hair in all of the perfect heres and theres,
style accord with ironic word, s'much involved with the a la mode;
and minds ablaze with rhetoric,
feverish discourse of pristine chic.
the mundane roar of the glorious mass,
hysterically jaded, from side to side a-pupils cast,
in desperate search for
cues and hints of how to proceed around the edge
of foreign things without consensus.
I shudder to think our Boheme elite, usurped by
image priority,
devoid of substance, 1-2-3.

piercing eyes can participate, or assumptions made by
groaning, solemn, self-composed manner,
but
i tire of the rabbit chase:
i long to speak without being heard, or waited for without a word,
instead of a grasping search for vapid, empty thoughts
at which to hurl upon the floor in hopes to
impress upon those assembled
the height and import of empty vessels,

but as consumption sets and shifts us t'wards the ease of impress,
we applaud and sing when we are met,
the audience a-fiddles, a mastered shade plays, with all of the right riddles
and ways in his way