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Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Exceptionally Ordinary Man



In front of me,
on the train is a doctor.
All of his attributes are pressed
and tied. His values are composed.


?Could I set out certainly, regularly
without wrinkled, rolled up sleeves
food and grease smudging my image
with an angelic soft focus
(used to hide all sorts of wrinkles)


the best I can do is buy the
second hand clothes and "irregular"
shoes of a well dressed man
sweat out the creases
and relax after 3pm when anyone
who arrived at work finely appointed
starts to resemble my constant state
of rumple.


Outwardly I'm a little sorry
but secretly my homunculus is immaculate.
Deep inside my chest, sitting in a wing-backed
cowhide club chair (oxblood in colour)
Surrounded by levers and pulleys, is a very small and organized little chap.
Daily, he's top to tail (a very short tail, but) in bespoke tailored textiles
and shod with leather that would always have a modifier:
"Italian", or "softened by the mouths of Inuit virgins".
Silver cufflinks, jeweled autonomic movement watch
His ties are woven directly from the silk worms' glands by specially trained spiders
He sports a cane made of Myanmar rosewood with an unicorn-ivory handle carved in the form of a duck's head
Which he uses to actuate the buttons furthest from reach (the least used, such as the one that tells me to do my ironing)


And does he resent me?! It is a strained relationship. On the rare occasion, when I've seen him on his way to work, or sitting out on the bedroom window sill (smoking Perique tobacco in his finely scrimshawed pipe) he's made it clear to me that he'd rather be, well,
otherwise
employed.

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