Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Caesar.

The Poet died
when from Beside
sprang Brutal Realism
Her Nakedness
a ridged spring
a sprung neck
of Truth Marks
of Bleeding Hearts
and Faulty Fountains
which had Once
decorated,
betwixt Arched Moments,
this Grand Monument
to Salad Days or
just
Wide Eyed Sensual
and Hopeless Ambition.

(I'd Love to Say It was More
I'd Love For You To Say It Was More

than

Dust

and words.

But That's All It Is Now)

Later

Herded Tourists
trample and scuff
nudging one another
laughing and
turning their back
these seasoned
Cynical Hyenas
eager and hungry
for Lunch, Fame
or Reason
Quick and Deadly
Accurate and
Moving On
they callously
spit on The Earthen Path
which led them here
gesturing as they dribble
Logic -

the fool
His primitive tools
His Hope 
upon which

these ruins were built 
were in fact 
previous incarnations
of Foolish Fantasms

And off they trundle
wrapped in Fur
down along the
parental presents
the
peeling paint
off to finger
their own
History in the

overblown grass

as behind them
The Ghost's

wistful
whisper
caresses the memory
of His Own Past
which struggles to fly
upon
The Tattered Flag Pole
and Marks
The Story
buried beneath
his Grave Sentimentality

Yes, 

he cries, asking -


but does not
each attempt 
to build this monument

lift The Poet's
body

closer
to 
Heaven?

No comments:

Post a Comment