Hiding in your amoured shell
masked in that red smile
which fires even a lame bull
you puff kisses
that vapourise before they reach me

my songs drown in the buzzes
of the million bees that trail you
and gloss you with their honey tongues

you lounge on your hill of ice
gauging your worth by the number of faithfuls
that daily throng your booth

you sprawl on your heap of gold
calling the blazing sun’s bluff
even though it slowly cracks your mountain

but petals soon lose their charms to new buds
who feed on them in derision
and footpaths littered with spent stars
are the more trodden by the aggrieved

while I still grope your thorny fence for soft spots
swinging this golden censer of literal love
why not smash your panes and let in my scented songs
before time
like fine sand
sips out through God’s clenched fist

This Post Has 2 Comments

  1. Emmanuel

    I love the elegance of its language.

  2. Joseph

    I saw a man who died of hate, I saw another who died of love
    Bob Dylan’s A Hard Rain is Gonna Fall.

    What ethnic hate has suppressed, universal praise has acclaimed?
    O glory!
    Abolish hate, the sky is broad enough for all comers
    For my songs, you pay me violence; for my silence, you repay me violence
    but why, why like witchcraft at sororicide, like witchcraft at infanticide
    what intoxicates you is the report that soils?

    If only your might is almighty, or your knowledge is omniscientific,
    you would make hunger terminal for some university argument…

    Perhaps, Art is not impotent
    perhaps sacrifices are recompensed— either in gold buttons or gold words
    perhaps, and the perhaps is endless….

Leave a Reply