The Killing Joke as Softened by Eros

They are in cans now,
and sit beside the road, have,
for a month.

The fins still might work
but the wind
has passed through
the devil castle Quixote
whose brick cheese hands
quiver above the naked
mirror of thought,
the orb whose
shadow
is the dream
trapped by time,

time albacore,
time salmon,
temporal praxidana~

~and with enough material
Sir Francis, to pave a road
from West Wycombe to High Wycombe,
you made good entry

into the hill
whose base was washed
by the Wye ~that heroism
was sinister
participation in the human
image
when no image
itself was human

~a bauble
laughs for
theory
is how
participation
begins,
what earnest
the wrack of pilot's
thumb Duncan
terrified~

Why?

Y.

Whose horrid image
doth unfix my hair
and make my
Karankawa
drawing boots

submarine

o'er gas fat
principle.