Bormyu

Watch love parade on screen, listen to the
imagined radio of fine sliced pop
binding unknown with backwash brain-fed
myth hovering timeless in a rock
of quartz revealing all life's background thread
- decisions that obscure the precise spot -
where instinct has no measure and cannot
recognise belief or deal with all the realms
between the ether freely entered into unneeded
for real breathing life to soak up more than
solely daylight, and the crafty chef de claque
with armies of commissaires, chatouilleurs
rieurs, and galaxies of pleureurs whose hit
hands bring worldly success by scandal, calmly
rationally; Stravinsky clapper-slams
that engineer the spring whose barmy seemless
unreal truth of TV runs dance sleek still
in the original feet barmy generations crave,
then chain to harm free minds in a remote
shackle of virtual long trance, surreal audiences
auto-chance applaud in as the unknown
choreography, Leonide, and the future bills
of star-dream yet to wake.