Almost a Poem
i just want to sit around,
drinking, sniffing things, scratching
myself, getting high.
just watching my pen
fill up a page.
do whatever it takes
to become a 'writer.'
a 'poet.'
something i admire, but
never really aspire to.
i just don't think i'd fit in.
they write poems about insignificant
relations and parallels to the
most trite of insights.
so here it is.
my poem about nothing.
about Pyrrhus and his futile
fight against tyranny,
how krebs will never fit in
either.
we've both survived a war
that's killed us.
'another victory like that
and we're done for'
'for Hecuba!' but
who is either to any of us
that we should keep
burning their name,
a revolutionary backfire,
Orc consumed in his
own final livid flame.
even your own wings cannot soar
so high past the wax-melting maze
of the sky, past this
palace of wisdom.
the house shifting finding
for you another pit,
with clouds round rolling
the mighty choose to reside,
hidden in their labyrinth,
behind their podiums, judicatures
& wooden caricatures of humanity-
writing poems about nothing,
terrorizing imagination &
out-lawing sanity.
will you be my Valentine on that day?
we'll be spurning christ's terrene body
watching the whole demon-built-world
descend as our flesh melts away.
let this mortal loss gain immortality.
let them puzzle over this for
centuries never fitting the edge
pieces together, if they do,
make room they'll be muzzled
& burning too, our doom
obstructed by Crass Casualty
dicing Time into eternal mansions
once this beast called man is surpassed
and the illusions are masked
in the mirror of life imitating art
imitating wilde paradoxes,
such a poetic heterodox.
Copyright © David Glines | Year Posted 2005
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