Universal Atlas | A Survey Of Our Wares

Sestina Six

Behind you, alone or asleep, your sweetheart. A mirror,
A delicious cake knowing its own happening, unknown
In its own haphazardness, wildly running out for more.
More layers lead to elaborate vexations. Startling rumors
Begin to stack up and the dealers who shuffle the ordinary
Cards are replaced with seers and a fresh-inked deck

Spread out in a cross, an old mixtape plays on the tape deck,
With each symbol or sign, hit, stay or fold, a bronze mirror.
Then your song, sung beyond death and somehow ordinary,
The song yr HS g/f hated and lead to the break. Unknown
However is the next number, tho there were always rumors
Of its manifestation. A drag of a rag, sloppy and a bit more

Post-punk posh. A band of muppets, shaggy and maybe more
One hit wonder than the rest of quid and quim. Next on deck
The Three of Wands. And the layers peel and more rumors
Micturate on the truth. The truth not somewhere in the mirror,
The wands tell us of a palace, in/external, welcoming unknown
Derivations of yr shame, here it is all about the ultra-ordinary,

The “more than everyday.” That inside/outside ordinary
tune you whistle scrubbing that square inch feeling more
Itchy and dirty than the rest. A subconscious surreal unknown
Twitch requiring the sublime scratch. An interior poop deck
For the Shanghaied to swab, mired and windless. They mirror
The Fool, the next card revealed. Dispel any and all rumors.

Fool of a man, hung up on the world and hung among rumors.
Rumors of philandering and witchcraft, sins ordinary
And obscene. Pop star vanity and occult use of a mirror.
Scrying eyes and scattered tea leaves, then even more
Disappearances in the South-end. Standing on your frozen deck,
Afraid now of interiors, they’ve done numbers on you. Unknown

In name or in kind, that creaking out there in the dark. Unknown
In the crevices of greymatter, the sublingual howling, the rumors
Rising up to say – something, anything. Out on the ship’s deck
Catching rainwater in rusted buckets. In the crow’s nest ordinary
Horizons are catching fire. Peel back another card. No more
Interpretations. This is no longer a metaphor. This is no mirror.

Magic buckling under mirror and smoke. Lost in the unknown
Expanses, compressed more and more into tawdry rumors,
Exploits fantastic and ordinary, set to the mix-tape in the tape-deck.

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