Nude and Falling Waters

‘Oh, but it doesn't end. It's continuous. When it finishes here, they take it on the road.’ – Trapper to Hawkeye

High above,
an organic icon crabs atop a Bearish Run –
Wright’s lego-stacked balconies
boldly cantilevering over a grumbling waterfall –
Kaufman’s weekender afflicted with terraces that sag,
and so
they must be wryly spanked
by a carpet beating servant, perhaps.
Such
rustic luxury, such simple decadence,
so very thirties, so very logical that
that decade would morph to War.

Below,
a nouveau Caravaggio
with buttocks, trapeze-tight serenely-
surreally dives and dissolves into stone.
An extra limb? A diving platform for Edgar’s guests?
If an Icarus, he’s lost his wings.
If a Christ, his left ankle bears a wound
that has been Hibiscrubbed clean
and so
we slither down where humble shelters
have sprung from dereliction: a fox hole, a tent, an unstable
stable and two un-idealised Diggers who squat
to build a squat –
archetypes in an unending engagement –
Korea, Borneo, Vietnam, the Gulf, Afghanistan, Iraq, East Timor, Lebanon, Kosovo, Syria, Lybia, Nigeria, Gaza
et al