The hipster’s hunch in a clanless tartan,
his hips astride (in a formless gait of
deforméd and torpidly morbid mince)
the stammering dream of a surrogate mother
enshrouded, cast in a plastic prance.

Those coats one slips up slithering tongues
like numbly mumbling casts of lamb skin,
casts of applauded comedies arguing
less than a piecemeal peace perturbed

though more than a groping reflection
stressing a feckless perfection of futures thwarted,
futures voiceless voyeurs vex
to a leprous limp or stretch to a daring ideal skinning

the bored and bottomless chest of restive worlds
to a yawning and plodding snare,
to the brassy clash of reveille teasing
a bleary-eyed sunrise redder than grenadine,
oranger than farm-fresh eggs unfurled
on the scowling eaves of a crazing dream,
on a woken world irrepressibly preening,

worlds we purl and praise, perchance,
to perfection looming
a homecoming war dance.