Arte Povera

In the little garden of Villa Sciarra,
I found a decade of poetry dead.
In the limestone fountain lay lizards
and Fanta cans, where Truth once splashed from The Source.

How pleased I was and defiant because
a dry basin meant the end of description & rhyme,
which had nursed and embalmed me at once.
Language was more than a baroque wall-fountain.

Nearby, a gas-light shone its white-hot tongue,
a baby spat up-the stomach's truth-telling-
a mad boy made a scene worthy of Stalin.
Ah, to see the beast shitting in its cage!

Then the lying-"Yes sir, Daddy"-which changes nothing.
My soul-animal prefers the choke-chain.