Poem
Maurice Scully
TAP DANCE
TAP DANCE
TAP DANCE
Artists
in their
factories
are
working
hard now
filling in
steel
boxloads
of grant
application
forms
on an
ongoing
shift
basis
through the
generations
beyond
making.
Life is
good.
There is
breathing
space.
The
galleries
are show
ing the
normal.
Formal.
The avant
garde. The
pig in a
poke.
Elderly ladies
eyes closed
heads lifted
listen to
mell
if
luous
poetry
& no
body’s
bitter.
.
Dips from
its pergola
touching yr
head as you
pass a rose by
way of caress
on a chill bright
winter morning
turning on its
stem pale
cream along a
black path
into the
park
sometimes
the slits
of an owl’s
lids open
to watch a
drop
falling from a
horn of lime
hanging from the
underarch
of a bridge.
.
O
come dance
with me
ye
prety maidens
& hark the foulys
song along an
avenue
of Boojum where
huge pyramids of
crystal new-fangled
interwoven
logics laugh at
the little people
tiny down there
among the
latest splashes
of the
hyper-baroque.
It’s good
to be
dead.
Past the
pastoral fascists
& gallery
thugs.
Pluck that
string. It
really feels
like this …
cycles
within
cycles.
And a dog
out there in
the dark going
Art! Art-Art!
Art!
in their
factories
are
working
hard now
filling in
steel
boxloads
of grant
application
forms
on an
ongoing
shift
basis
through the
generations
beyond
making.
Life is
good.
There is
breathing
space.
The
galleries
are show
ing the
normal.
Formal.
The avant
garde. The
pig in a
poke.
Elderly ladies
eyes closed
heads lifted
listen to
mell
if
luous
poetry
& no
body’s
bitter.
.
Dips from
its pergola
touching yr
head as you
pass a rose by
way of caress
on a chill bright
winter morning
turning on its
stem pale
cream along a
black path
into the
park
sometimes
the slits
of an owl’s
lids open
to watch a
drop
falling from a
horn of lime
hanging from the
underarch
of a bridge.
.
O
come dance
with me
ye
prety maidens
& hark the foulys
song along an
avenue
of Boojum where
huge pyramids of
crystal new-fangled
interwoven
logics laugh at
the little people
tiny down there
among the
latest splashes
of the
hyper-baroque.
It’s good
to be
dead.
Past the
pastoral fascists
& gallery
thugs.
Pluck that
string. It
really feels
like this …
cycles
within
cycles.
And a dog
out there in
the dark going
Art! Art-Art!
Art!
© 2014, Maurice Scully
Poems
Poems of Maurice Scully
Close
TAP DANCE
Artists
in their
factories
are
working
hard now
filling in
steel
boxloads
of grant
application
forms
on an
ongoing
shift
basis
through the
generations
beyond
making.
Life is
good.
There is
breathing
space.
The
galleries
are show
ing the
normal.
Formal.
The avant
garde. The
pig in a
poke.
Elderly ladies
eyes closed
heads lifted
listen to
mell
if
luous
poetry
& no
body’s
bitter.
.
Dips from
its pergola
touching yr
head as you
pass a rose by
way of caress
on a chill bright
winter morning
turning on its
stem pale
cream along a
black path
into the
park
sometimes
the slits
of an owl’s
lids open
to watch a
drop
falling from a
horn of lime
hanging from the
underarch
of a bridge.
.
O
come dance
with me
ye
prety maidens
& hark the foulys
song along an
avenue
of Boojum where
huge pyramids of
crystal new-fangled
interwoven
logics laugh at
the little people
tiny down there
among the
latest splashes
of the
hyper-baroque.
It’s good
to be
dead.
Past the
pastoral fascists
& gallery
thugs.
Pluck that
string. It
really feels
like this …
cycles
within
cycles.
And a dog
out there in
the dark going
Art! Art-Art!
Art!
in their
factories
are
working
hard now
filling in
steel
boxloads
of grant
application
forms
on an
ongoing
shift
basis
through the
generations
beyond
making.
Life is
good.
There is
breathing
space.
The
galleries
are show
ing the
normal.
Formal.
The avant
garde. The
pig in a
poke.
Elderly ladies
eyes closed
heads lifted
listen to
mell
if
luous
poetry
& no
body’s
bitter.
.
Dips from
its pergola
touching yr
head as you
pass a rose by
way of caress
on a chill bright
winter morning
turning on its
stem pale
cream along a
black path
into the
park
sometimes
the slits
of an owl’s
lids open
to watch a
drop
falling from a
horn of lime
hanging from the
underarch
of a bridge.
.
O
come dance
with me
ye
prety maidens
& hark the foulys
song along an
avenue
of Boojum where
huge pyramids of
crystal new-fangled
interwoven
logics laugh at
the little people
tiny down there
among the
latest splashes
of the
hyper-baroque.
It’s good
to be
dead.
Past the
pastoral fascists
& gallery
thugs.
Pluck that
string. It
really feels
like this …
cycles
within
cycles.
And a dog
out there in
the dark going
Art! Art-Art!
Art!
TAP DANCE
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