The Gare Saint-Lazare, the Arrival of a Train

 

A dungeon frozen from temporal business in the air,
Ostensible nature was trying hard to condense to elegance,
Like behaviour strained and stupid, devious negligence.
This concentrate (Emmanuel) was steamy clouds in there
And wisps of sexual innocence, furious to be unfair.
What Parisian railway station? What regular common sense?
What past century? What Algerian porter's ritual experience?
If Claude Monet knew then, what I know now, it is care.
Feel the ice of plastic anxiety chilling every pulse of blood;
I hated it, the cherished trust that nothing was happening,
The wonderful shame of the vampire treated as very God.
Vengeful, the velvet underground was ignorantly ripening,
From crestfallen petals from plumed flowers and bud.
The famous, slippery, blossomed slope wasn't steepening.