unlucky, tragedy, the baker's dozen,
burnt to a cinder, extraterritorial
eruction, takes us to the vessel
of fools, pacification is the dummy
in transatlantic legacy, the facile
hope for serenity, lagoonal, goony
bird take off, impeded by religiosity,
and by demands too high, death
downs nine, and wins the game,
they do not understand each other,
each with a cross to bear, a croissant,
a star-crossed, the creed wounds
with baseball bat and bullet,
would we, could we Hart believe,
will the Gods to make up, to kiss
will the peoples to embrace
the future, but to the sounds
of jeers, we two old flames, flicker
and go out in the contempt
for outside opinion, like the albatross
above, wing spanned, its Coleridge
symbolism, too much for the taste
of those who like the literal
who want to beat and batter
those fools, those stupid pathetic
fools, damned to the rock
damned to eternal conflict.
No comments:
Post a Comment