XIV. Le violet [lui va bien]

XIV. Le violet [lui va bien]
Sometime after an initial excerption—How the pitched pocket fob
Can still be considered the closest form of divinity; the pen’s florid wallpaper
Concorded the flooring's reptile scales; perhaps mistaken for the sowing field’s glints
Of iron, of shrapnel, or from a mauling of an unblemished child—Threatened florets

Inclusive of the matte green and purple tureen; equally at home by the violet turritella
Your foot upturned in the carpet—Leaving the shower, your skin is porphyry, or ergot

Robert Browning’s candelabrum staggers before its interrogating portrait—Ergot
Of Convolvulaceae, the morning glory and allied hellbine—The turn-off and exaggerated search for a key fob,
Just before Edward Gorey’s cornice-dropping, the Isadora Duncan scarf, a turritella
Whorl in-feeding the rear hub of a wheel—By what index of docility is the mind’s wallpaper
Broken up with a dado rail; favored by hospitals—Drawing the eye’s localized glint
On the frames askew on their hooks, the gobbets in cooling bathwater—By this nib of a pen, a floret

Lights the dark; as if one were being seen at last, attenuated until impaled—Florets
Of tapestry, the embroiderer would stitch over that on a jacquard loom, where rye ergot
Replaces the seed of a grass—The ovary only, the organizing principle and iniquity, the glint
Of which one thought best to peel her canvas shoes, with matched shirt dress with a crocodile, for fobbed
Off rocks and lukewarm water under cloches—Timon, the misanthrope, minus the heel arch distressing Chuck Taylors—The cotton box’s turritella  

Meaning turreted, for that elongated cone that is armor-plated, not for getting rocks off—Embroidering the Earth’s Mantle (1961)—An ekphrastic wallpaper

In The Crying of Lot 49, (1966), where Oedipa Maas is tempted into finding herself—Wallpaper
Of the host family, of The Tuning Fork (c.1966), which is loathed—Edward, who was asexual, with so many sheet metal florets
As rings; hirsute, apparently, exhausting furs—If this is not the tack, then the same-age instructor wraps around to exact the angle of the Pasteur pipet; as a turritella
Impressed by agate at the drying cabinet, or the older one’s angina from a race up the stairs, and vasoconstriction brought on by ergotamine,
Unless one dares to reject the proposal of being the future doormat warmed by southern sun; the glint
Of approval unnoticed, and paying for it for another decade—FOB

For freight on board, for Kinbote’s misappropriation (1962)—This theme, her pale fire she snatches from the sun (IV.iii.440) like a pocketed fob
Exhibited by M. Hackabout, but striving to make nice—Or at least reconcile why we are born, or why we live; some in the wallpaper—
A condition that came 17 years ago, having shown no intention of going away; a dulled toothache, by glint
Of the needle, wherever to insert the nerve block—Einhorn, synthaesthete of Novocain (1905), whose name at first suggests a cubit and a half inches in length adapted to a floriated
Ground in a virgin’s lap—Herself, the conquest, and the fury (IV.iii.341) onward to rhizomatics, after Deleuze and Guattari (1980)—Ergonovine's
Provocative test of Prinzmetal’s angina, with elevations of atrial repolarization; water cleaved, D-lysergic acid, and producing turritella

Fossils in the sandstone of the siren’s scream; yet first, before collapsing under her weight, working the turritella
Spindle, with a shaft mistaken at the heart’s benthic ink, where a bat-winged entity peeks at a phosphorescent watch fob—
Should she have involved someone in this headache, and plunge the sunken planetarium, like everyone else—Hope for subsequent generations, where ergometrine
By slow intravenous injection stills postpartum bleeding; subsequent to the one, for induction, after having seen a vet at work, and allowed to unfoil the pessary, it wallpapers
A mind deciding whether to go left or right, but not being dowsed confidently, failing—By glint
Of those outlines one longed to fill with their lawful colors—the green and purple of an exotic plant floriated

With aromatic domiciles issued from the machine—With florets twinned into garlands, the turritella
Combed on a beach, warden or chum to lord and lady disobedience unchaining their bikes—A mother’s ergot spasm somewhere indiscreet in her own wine-dark sea wallpapered
By Gorey—Unless one is meant a different approach; knowing no advice is taken, we sympathize with glinting eyes the fobbed off regulations, where galoshes trail an obelisk—