[Been ages since I wrote a nonsense poem]
Is it modernist when….
the cities walls that rise are Paris, London, Troy?
Orlando is a girl – a girl? Orlando is a boy.
The time it lasts is vague, but the weeping is specific
and fascinating things go on, glimpsed over the Pacific.
The footnotes are all gone, just when you need them most,
and Eliot gets his dick wet in some grubby London boat
whilst Joyce moo-cows and lintels by the public bar,
and Woolf idly wonders where the women writers are.
Where the reading public seek relief from rationality
and find it in the pages of the Heart of Darkness’ savagery,
and nobody is anyone without difficult imagery.
And everybody cares about art vs machines,
meaning, well, nobody is quite sure what it will mean,
but mostly its to do with how they’re going to get paid.
All art of worth is intellect, and nothing is obscenity,
and Wyndham Lewis spends two decades, trying to get laid.