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About This Poem
The Morning of the Hurricanes Part 2
Continued from Part 1
The White-Robed Maiden empties trash,
And fumbles with an untied sash,
- Her virgin urn’s awash with ash -
She’s pacing in the Palace
Her hopes converge in coffee spoons,
Her memories adrift in dunes,
Yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes,
And lips of painted callous
And long before the midnight drains
- The Saviour wakes, the Loser gains -
The waters of the Hurricanes
Will fill her empty chalice
The storm behind the clarinets,
The silver flutes, the castanets,
The foghorns belching in quartets,
The bagpipes, puffed and swollen,
Is keeping time to tambourines
While Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens,
They curse themselves and philistines,
For time they’ve lost or stolen
They stumble through the old domains,
They cannot stop the Hurricanes -
The fountain weeps, the mountain wanes,
And sands just keep on rollin’
The Hunchbacks juggle twisted canes
And blanch before the Hurricanes
In melted sleet, in frozen rains,
In bruised and battered sandals
They’ll groan within the land of gulls,
The land of stones, the land of nulls,
They’ll crawl between the blackened lulls,
For Night Time brooks no candles
They’ll pray to Dogs, while Nuns and Dukes,
Reflect on long forgotten Spooks -
It’s really more than random flukes
That doors are lacking handles
The Crowds are throbbing in the jails,
Stooped, peering through a fence of nails -
The light within their eyeballs pales
With plastic flame that sputters
They’re sleeping there because they must,
Their eyelids hang like peeling rust,
Their tears, palled pellets in the dust,
Behind the bolted shutters
They’ll reawake without their pains
The Morning of the Hurricanes,
Without their sores, without their stains,
Their agonies will fill the drains
And overflow the gutters
End
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