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
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