lines about Marcel DuchampÔÇÖs urinal
No barbarous australopithecine
shall squirt his jet on your concavity,
in which there lurks no turquoise rusk of pine,
for youÔÇÖre ephemeral and really witty,
white porcelainÔÇÖs perfection, of pissoir
apotheosis. ZamfirÔÇÖs curdling pipes
cloak no unseemly sounds. Instead, a choir
of Dadaists pompously talking tripe.
For youÔÇÖre ephemeralÔÇöI mentioned thisÔÇö
you were effaced in 1917,
thrown out by Stieglitz, sacrificed as trash.
And yet, of all the pots Mott made for piss,
your fame endures: a shiny pot and clean,
fit for a Platonist to have a slash.
From: Sonnets, Mostly Bristolian
Published in: The Hypertexts