This is perfectly strange,
this poem. Enjoy its range.
We don’t know who we are. The view of ourselves
in the half-dark, in a different mirror,
finds the world of strangeness and accident and change
not ourselves—and yet
using ourselves to show its vast oddity.
Do I really look like that? Is my shape
the thing I am? The last thing I wanted to be was strange
and here I am, strange. The show isn’t popular
but for one reason—perfection not strange is desired,
beauty of voice, beautiful seeming, beautiful bodies on display,
proportion, transparency, smoothness.
A smooth appearance is everything
no matter what other (ugly!) thing we try and say.
So this: Not some dark, but total dark. Not some control, but total control.
You will do what I say. I am the boss. You will feel my soul.
Who invented light? And the real day?