Poem

Like I said earlier, no will-o'-the-wisps,
no chimeras, no precognitive dreams
of being trampled to death by a cloud parade.
No abatement of traffic din--it may be woven
into the already too dense orchestration
of the cloud war. It's high time a pipe dream
became a drum reality, Cymbaline,
a low-time job grooming vortical swaybacks
with silicon whiptails. It's superversive in that
it overmines gonzo ethical reasoning by
adopting a bilateral approach. It's by
turns staid and scintillant as a Catherine wheel
sowing sparks and reaping parks of flame-
colored foliage never catalogued by botanists.
Like you'll say later, the tsunami-lashed valley
appears more verdurous than heretofore.
The cymballing of Persian palm elephant ears
punctuates the orchestral vortex.



the spiral staircase in the southwest tower of St Paul's Cathedral, London