As one might expect, Blake, ever the contrarian, goes straight for the only position he could endure: to be true to the unvarnished, sanctimonious, lurid, truth, or reflection of truth in the proletarian eyes of the mannered falsehood he may have despised, or perhaps reveled in, with the twit of a nose...of course the peacock, a strange guinea hen created by some sort of genetic malfunction, bred no doubt for the amusement of the barnyard and the incandescence that so marvels us, a cheap trick of the breeder, a lurid freak, there is much to be ironical, although there happens, in this image, to be, a not too subtle suggestion that no freak can be responsible for the tinkerings of men. No matter how fantastical, the eyes always have the peacock in mind, just as many times a fleck of light may sparkle in the light of fire in the company of a beautiful woman.
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