In Loco Parentis
Often, without any consent and from
out of its arcane architecture
a mouth by turns inverted
from source-code to toolkit,
first secreted then secreted
as a sumptuous semper fidelis,
in pursuit of rational overreaching
that rations libertates as Rights of Man.
May we no longer with license be
but with lice aplenty mete
yr bacchantic hysterics
in apollonian Babyface.
Can we not appeal to
the wild-side of his
daughter to a wolf whistler’s
will to womanpower?
A little earthen puissance, maybe,
camped out in flagrante delicto.
A secret garden inferred from an untyped
token, tesseract cast
as tessera tied to a training pot
to end up a test market for Teletubbies.
You are our happy Eden, our ending,
the crowd’s roar at Flughafen Nürnberg
registered by the primitive recording
equipment of the day as Eine Kleine
Kristallnachtmusik, tiny terror
of being there without having to go.
The accretion disk of history,
composing its perspective effect,
turns round a too-soon
to mistake that thought for
the transpiration of Utopia,
not to recognize that each thought
is a door that leads one only away.
What remains: period piece, daily life.
How its content contains unrestrained
as shifted fetishes persist in reversing
the flow of intention outward
from things without measure or making.
City of detours, derivations,
where she has not an obstructed
memorial of dispensation.
The prize of us, object that consents
to production. What you wore, management
solution. The consent that objects
to usufruct. Still mute so to speak.
Still mute, which is not to say patient,
waiting to the extent that we could define
ourselves in loco parentis, in absence
of a body against opportunity.
She does not fascinate because
she affords us a view as an obscenity
but transfixes in the sense of severance
as in of an estate or limb.