Ideology

Cold hungry hands How they wrench and heave Hack and cleave Stretch twist and compress Hands of Procrustean carnage And how will they attain their prized guest? She is too luxuriant and grand to deign rest in an iron bed Ah but these hands are crafty in their foolish obsession They only need a piece to justify their ends And how easy she is to extract! The ether of being where she dwells Contracts to proportions pinchable by dextrous digits The simple triumph of purposed Mind Once the hands have her she bucks and kicks How alive she seems! Though she is in her death throws But alas, she is formless. She must be made to fit! With religious attention to scientific precision the feverish, clammy hands measure, pull, hack How precise they are! Entire volumes must be filled - great tomes must be written in order to encapsulate all the intricacies of the hands’ technique! And what is the result? Such perfection! Such seamless fitting. There she lies Shackled by impenetrable certainly Stretched taut and straining How she strains! How beautiful! How simple and true she seems She glows implacable The rust-tang colour of contrived honesty Delusion! But even as the hands dance - Primitively, like maggots - She, the disfigured beauty on the iron bed Begins to fade, translucefy Until Time, her favourite companion Makes her opaque with the grotesque monolith of her Orwellian dwelling She betrays its concealment