Home Is Where The Heart Is And

Love Is Desire Sustained By Unfulfilment.

Iconic Clothing Has Been Secularized. . . . A Guardsman In A Dress Uniform Is Ostensibly An Icon Of Aggression; His Coat Is Red As The Blood He Hopes To Shed. Seen On A Coat-hanger, With No Man Inside It, The Uniform Loses All Its Blustering Significance And, To The Innocent Eye Seduced By Decorative Colour And Tactile Braid, It Is As Abstract In Symbolic Information As A Parasol To An Eskimo. It Becomes Simply Magnificent.

For All Cats Have This Particularity, Each And Every One, From The Meanest Alley Sneaker To The Proudest, Whitest She That Ever Graced A Pontiff's Pillow — We Have Our Smiles, As It Were, Painted On. Those Small, Cool, Quite Mona Lisa Smiles That Smile We Must, No Matter Whether It's Been Fun Or It's Been Not. So All Cats Have A Politician's Air; We Smile And Smile And So They Think We're Villains

With That, The Poignant Charm Vanished. Inside The Fifth Machine, All Was Rampant Malignity. Deformed Flowers Thrust Monstrous Horned Tusks And Trumpets Ending In Blaring Teeth Through The Crimson Walls, Rending Them; The Ravenous Garden Slavered Over Its Prey And Every Brick Was Shown In The Act Of Falling. Amid The Violence Of This Transformation, The Oblivion Of The Embrace Went On. The Awakened Girl, In All Her Youthful Loveliness, Still Clasped In The Arms Of A Lover From Whom All The Flesh Had Fallen. He Was A Grinning Skeleton.

Sad; So Sad, Those Smoky-rose, Smoky-mauve Evenings Of Late Autumn, Sad Enough To Pierce The Heart.