Pulling Faces

Fly in the face, say please
to the debaser, ask

about the daily special,
a ripe crumble of uncontrolled

substances that take the starch
out of British standards flying

the runway filled
with crashed planes —

what good are supermassive black holes
if you can't clean the republic

pull faces back
before the court jesters

when they'd perform no circus
act for the liver spots

growing on the Union Jack:
pin-up princes

pledging their allegiance to pop,
the pomp and pageantry

dusting us over
with the cobwebs of crowns

that reign with repetition
in the throat: bowing words

we'll say of a weekend
when Hanover assumes our voice.