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Cadogan Place

On this side of the inferno,
A cool breeze gently tugs the sleeves,
Of the man whose plan is to seize,
Just enough children hands to die,
Before the rot of paradox,
Sets in to make him lonely again.

His idea is to take a metaphor,
(Which is not quite a living thing
But still something you’d be best off
Keeping an eye on, so to speak),
Distill its essence in vapor,
Inhale, and, if all goes well, fly.

Looking down at Cadogan Place,
A lost poodle looks left and right,
Searching for his lady of fate,
A woman of some pedigree,
Whose appointment with the doctor,
Should have come before the bridge.

It was not a long war, exactly,
The casualties were kept low,
So as to keep things kind of fair,
The armies fought against the words,
By which means it was a real war,
In her head that is, before she jumped.

A man, with a broken wheelbarrow,
Full of gall and grinning onions,
Stood on toe searching the night light,
For the coming nocturnal gift,
Showers filled with resentment,
Enough by George to make him rich.

The flying man grinned and waved,
A dream much more than good or bad,
Beyond the English din of facts,
Horizons paved by German rats,
Lay a frontier, the final font,
Where little magic verbs chanted.

Like the zipless art of friction,
A new slang fell upon the land,
The man on the ground pointed down,
His boots heavy with laughter’s sound,
Making his rounds by selling nouns,
Penny magazines for the poor.

If living was only to be,
Sick for most of eternity,
The parlor lady almost drowned,
Might just have counted her blessings,
For when truth gets told by owls old,
Dying deals just another blow.

When she got back from near defeat,
The water of fire, air, and earth fell,
Like a hundred thousand thoughts,
From her shoulders in one big swell,
Soothing not just the ache in her heart,
But healing poetry’s lost art.

Be not deceived when fiction flies,
For it takes two ones to make a third;
The tears of lies flow down a stream,
To where a receptacle awaits,
A tiny grail called the ocean,
Which opens its mouth and cries. 

Artists, saints and philosophers,
The proverbial trinity,
All in it from go to finish,
To make laws out of points of view,
From flaws so fake and sick to see,
As to shame the sun into tears.

Thrice removed from the heart of life,
Sat a man in a pyramid, 
Holding a timepiece to his chest,
Geometry’s essence for rest,
The wet kiss of life fleeting fast,
He forgot why lips were therefore.

The noise of all the busy streets,
Starvation teasing Burden’s ass,
Words by numbers laughing loud,
The Stone, the Rock and all the crowd,
All crushed by the turn of a crank,
While exploding stars meant nothing.

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