Post by llb on Aug 8, 2003 1:21:39 GMT -5
Tardy to the Death-house
Is it that the
idol was hemophilic?
Or trailing chains?
Statuary is walking this beat,
Men of law. Statues
Are walking the divide.
I am of the sick, but I feel stout
And hale-hearted. Just the other day,
I kicked the tripwire
That yanked my fingers
From the gloves of my soul.
I no longer have a hand in my outcome.
The trafficker-statues are friends, and good ones.
They walk the zany line of unreason, always
Late and lacking visas.
But, at the gates of the death-house
Adulthood,
They cease tread and lock their memories.
The Decline of Genius
To this, my scary sky I give
The desultory flush of he, my
Fickle flame. Mercury is dribbling
Like squid-ink in a whirl over the
Walls of the water.
Mercurial as is my genius, let me say:
When I gave tinge to the heavens,
To the frescoed surface of the
Embattled sea
And to the scales of the mermen,
I was taller than the steeples over
The city.
And, with my wand of contention
I give the fluid of action
To history.
The steeples are crumpling, tumbling.
Why can’t the foragers at the gates stop
Their mumbling? These minaretted skies
Are delicious! Aviaries of steel, a tramp’s
Conquest: A boxcar flagged and caught
By the implicit nets of Providence.
But wait on the span of human invention, child.
My vagabonds, gatecrashers! The workmanship
The pompous carpentry of the scribbler!
Arisen and slaked, draining his marshlands
Of incident and character.
Tales are unfurling on the peppery night.
Bluish from guilt, walking with fresh sight.
As a man of genius? Sawdust, every word.
Is it that the
idol was hemophilic?
Or trailing chains?
Statuary is walking this beat,
Men of law. Statues
Are walking the divide.
I am of the sick, but I feel stout
And hale-hearted. Just the other day,
I kicked the tripwire
That yanked my fingers
From the gloves of my soul.
I no longer have a hand in my outcome.
The trafficker-statues are friends, and good ones.
They walk the zany line of unreason, always
Late and lacking visas.
But, at the gates of the death-house
Adulthood,
They cease tread and lock their memories.
The Decline of Genius
To this, my scary sky I give
The desultory flush of he, my
Fickle flame. Mercury is dribbling
Like squid-ink in a whirl over the
Walls of the water.
Mercurial as is my genius, let me say:
When I gave tinge to the heavens,
To the frescoed surface of the
Embattled sea
And to the scales of the mermen,
I was taller than the steeples over
The city.
And, with my wand of contention
I give the fluid of action
To history.
The steeples are crumpling, tumbling.
Why can’t the foragers at the gates stop
Their mumbling? These minaretted skies
Are delicious! Aviaries of steel, a tramp’s
Conquest: A boxcar flagged and caught
By the implicit nets of Providence.
But wait on the span of human invention, child.
My vagabonds, gatecrashers! The workmanship
The pompous carpentry of the scribbler!
Arisen and slaked, draining his marshlands
Of incident and character.
Tales are unfurling on the peppery night.
Bluish from guilt, walking with fresh sight.
As a man of genius? Sawdust, every word.
