Probing postmodernism

Reading Lyotard I've been reminded that art can represent reality (understood as interpreted constructs), or the rules of reality; but this is not what art does today. Instead art now stands in a paradoxical relation to the future, in that it creates the rules before they exist. With that sort of thing in mind I decided that the-not-really-royal we will not try to make sense in today's poetry effort. Instead it is an exercise in rearranging (its own) whateva rules - "teasing the neurons", if you will.

If with his nose in the air he stood
in a yellow coat
ta-tay-ta-tay-ta-tay-tah
oh, beauty, in the window she stands
his rose in her hands

I digress. It is enough that in a restaurant
"I"I"I"I"I"
see a moving face on a TV screen
a slightly mechanical oval
oh, my! it is beautiful in that space

"Hav u Cn, wot woz it?" She laughs,
so pretty when she clamps her mouth "Demon-
seed
Demon-
seed
Demon-
seed" she smiles
so pretty, my, my, my, "I"I"I"I"I"
am somehwere in a crowded club now
dancing to a deep dark beat
neon faces black boots, loud
metal music is my pet peeve, wow!

I bet he tells himself
- something or other -
standing in his raincoat there
like a stupid elf
tap-tap-tap, asking for coffee

fuck it, why bother

If with his pose and his air he stood
in a raincoat
tap-tap-tap, asking under an umbrella
beauty, in the clearing where she stands
her ring in his hands

I transgress. It is in love that in a restless rant
"I"I"I"I"I"
blame Jurgen Haas on the seedy scene
for a mighty tyrannical ogling
but sigh, is it beautiful in that face?

Can't make out a thing. Someone laughs
then her mouth says "Demon-
seed
Demon-
seed
Demon-
seed" and smiles
way pretty, my oh my, "I"I"I"I"I"
am totally mutha-knackered now
prancing on my feet
these paper-whatsit-faces yellow neon out
settle as the rest goes pow!

I bet I'll tell myself
- something, tomorrow -
lying in a bed somewhere
worrying my health
rat-tat-tat, asking for coffee

fuck it, bother!