Apparently, my inammorata, much happens around Louis Quatorze chairs:
drip-dry semen exchanges, bevels, photo-opportunities, court-intrigues,
that saffron-yellow monkey, the odd, delicate beheading –
everything within its aura or orbit
– all actual matter, my inammorata, all data –
transmogriphied into an epoch
– making exclamation such as ‘My concubine,
the morphology of your bustle exacibates my libido
by degrees’

or some such folly. Thus, amongst the expansiveness of empirical cushions we are as fleas,
by the puffed-up lilos of the Municipal lido
and its crazy-paving sheen
where the monumental orrery adheres to our seats like cushions stuffed with capoc –
caught between being a starfucker or stellar-mater,
we dally and wait
– my inammorata – to contemplate soft furnishings and inexpensive bedding,
into which everything else of any importance sinks and segues –
not least the munitions factory, tin-tacks, and of course, occasionally, Louis Quatorze.