Rose rotted chandelier

by Kirsten Norrie

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When Genet came dressed
in ropes of rose
and undertook again
the third edition of fresh burnt prose

 ribbon warped the candlelight
the thin barred room he moved in
French beneath the warm script tight

I see him now
lean calved on course
his sweating white rose bridle

Straddling a young chandelier
frozen rose water, tears and idle
in all the sad ashes of slighted flowers;

 Genet in his tribe of flowers
hibiscus caught, slit-throat aloe,
amaryllis rising, shot in the head

follows Asphodel,
marigold, lobelia,
the small harmed box,
and the dogged baby’s breath,
do me justice chestnut and Wilde’s
green carnations, all these buttercup
inundations, and cabbages, grown from the root
ripped by lambs with golden canterbury bells,
swinging at the throat.

Here heather hells, stain the peat
the undercurrent blossom,
badge of Donalds from sky to sea
whipped by Genet, strung by Charlie
and roped in the Tower of London.

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