25 years after Larkin

They jump on the bandwagon, like pouring treacle

over a sponge pudding, the latter an ancient temple

of Mrs Beaton's recipe, they plump for the recitation

and the republication, it is Sir John B and his poetry

with jazz and copulation, take a common garden

variety phrase spoken in a bar, and blend it with sarcasm,

For example, when in the 1950's, you went out with a tart,

The reader plays gooseberry to Larkin, and in the 1970's

the reader goes arse over elbow through the high window,

Now, fuck me silly, if the F word is not finally a truism,

I mean evolution was as Ernst Mayr said sex driven

Like Larkin in the library poring over the S & M magazine

In his later years he is a dead ringer for Eric Morecambe,

Though Eric was funnier, Phil was probably wittier,

Like comics everywhere, there is inside a tragedian

So babies and children can be dined upon in modest

proposals, uncle Phil can take out his mortar and pestle

to grind the Victorian into a Saturday walk in the park

to snog and slip the hand under the skirt of history

Have his will with a bird called Jill, to write a novel

bad boy academic style, to play master with pizzle

to whip the bull and cant of the precious middleclass

which he did well with school boy delicious naughtiness

Though his targets sometimes, and his outlook

were from my pov, would not meet my approval

Indeed, those Enid Blyton rhymes in his verse

Gets me thinking of good old Noddy and Big Ears

and then, to the infamous labels on the Robinson's jam

from which one must move to the butty and smutty

to the "Good Old Days when a spade was a

Oh Phil if you were here today, I'd say to you piss

off you silly wanker, but as you are long gone

we think, well your poetry was not that nutty

you were better than Thom Gunn and others

(Really??) and worthy of your own statue,

I'd have Thom any day, and even Sir J B

However, if one takes time and reads his poetry

and gets beyond the political, forget his take

on women, read Alfred Adler and inferiority

complex, perhaps you can understand Larkin

and his sex problem, his sadness and loneliness

After all, it sums up nicely a whole set of people

Called the English male in State of Eternal Panic.

I heard audio files

I heard audio files of the bleats and blubberings

of the classical herd of histrionics, and then I

listened to the lingering lisps of the modernists

and georgians, after a while, as the transmission

crackled with server overload, I ventured to hear

the postmodernists, and heard music blended

like goldfish into the mix of straightforward

and unusual syntax, I heard a joke the other day

and it was miles better than the beats and snubberings

of the elastical hurt of the history majors who loosened

their science and longingly latched onto the poetics

of the foucauldian abyss, the angry avatars against

the osbourne of the cuts and the kitchen sink,

I think the punch line was one I cherish, because

it was one octave above the range of a chipmunk

and thus, lost in the noise of muttering like a Portuguese

writer in the blindness of a notebook that is published

like one unfurls a toilet roll, a parchment of prejudice

suitable for the ears of the literatti, and NOW

you must wonder HOW might this sound - like PROSE

or wait a bit, POETRY, will I accompany it on the spoons?

Bring in Nelly the elephant to stomp out or trumpet

my talent for murdering the poem, mon dieu?

Aside from the Rod Steiger look - Mr. Hill deserves it I suppose

Aside from the Rod Steiger look - Mr. Hill deserves it I suppose

the Bromsgrove boy made good - though there are some

who have misunderstood his love of history and obscure

which puts him in the Robert Graves' class of know it all

but this is not quite the point, nor a good argument

for dismissing good old Geoffrey Hill as arrogant

some thrive on putting down a poet, who is mainstream

even though others think he is probably the future

whatever way you think, you can't say ill of Bromsgrove's

boy made good, it is not Kidderminster, and at least

the horse whisperer did not to my knowledge pen poetry,

but imagine, if Michael Ball, instead of going to Plymouth

College went to Oxford, maybe his lyrics would find themselves

in seminars discussed, and the net result sung on Eurovision

so we can be thankful, though Geoff Hill is bit of a codger

his poetry is still to par for a London Review or TLS submission?

Upon Reading William Wordsworth's "The World is very much with us"

as the planet search takes on a far-flung reach, and maybe
we could be, believe it or not, not alone,
to dine on our fastfood burgers and coke

as the station picks up a pace, more docking of Russian
and Amercican, they make love not war, somehow the slogan
might fit this enterprise, any way it may end in peace

as we switch on the screen, it opens from a tiny spot,
to the width of a metre or more, like a stellar explosion
of colour and light, then there is not life but resemblance

as the drone to the beat of the control flies over a mountain,
it does without compassion, like a mindless male bee
seeking in the virtual skies a virgin queen to fuck

After Reading Abraham Cowley's "The Wish"

Too true Abraham - when we find a place of solitude

invariably we must keep it to ourselves, keep mum,

or else the mob will soon descend and wreck this green

sanctuary.

It happens not like bees buzzing, but through viral internet

where news is seen and spreads faster than a bacterium

I write one email, one sms, and it is broadcast and viewed

on the little mobile screen and located on google world

It is listed in the Lonely Planet, then oh yes it is lost

to the motel, hotel, a Wal-mart, a Mac D, and in short

space of time, everyone is sharing my place of solitude

As to the homemaker, or if you will, your Eve,

she is not allowed these days, akin to a blow -up doll,

she is a kind of pornography, a kind of slave

so Abraham, better to seek love and equality

whether it be man or woman, you must share,

though unfortunately as you would have us lounge

in some shaker furniture and listen to the trill

of summer birds, while we sit at the village green

next to the duck pond, there is a distinct possibility

that Miriam, we will call her that, will soon connect

with the cyberworld and look for another fellow

on the equivalent to Amazon, those shopping for love

someone will take her, your future is a carpe dium,

but you knew that, city boy, as you sat reading Playboy.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XXI

Paraphasing the Paraphrase

you wag Hart, to pun on your name in paraphrase

to transform the whole into an organ, to have your beat

taken to heart,

now that is youth, to muck around with form, to tease

out parts from the whole, it is Aristotle and his categories,

it is good to have

geographies to work with like Donne, to train the antartic

see we have one of those commentaries, the type they cast

as insincere

you need to have more Hart, I think then of a lonely deer

see how I grip hold tightly of the pun, how I wring

for all its worth

but less artfully, I move in jest, though I think we are on

the same page, at least we are on board our junk as it sails

gently through paraphrase.

Whale of a time

Will the fin-backed whale now rise?

it cannot, sadly, as it is turned on its side,

without a murmur, without hope, no voice,

it must submit like a skateboard slope

to the indignity of use, as it a massive

grey spectacle, a banked scow, lies

where it should not be, in Vejle fjord,

gone to ground in sickness, slowly it dies,

they talk of biology and of dissection

already, anxious to find the cause of death,

before life has left its body, would you do

this to your kid brother, assemble next

to his bed, eating popcorn or icecream

as he in his frailty, last moments of light

leaves the world, playback his expiration,

would you not seek to comfort him, to ease

his end, to show humanity, instead of science,

that measures him in numbers instead of words,

leaves to cold objectivity without interference?

But see here, some do care, firemen spray water,

and they seek to return him to the open seas

and they express against the odds determination,

they want him to succeed, to put him right,

they want this rare and over hunted animal

to survive, yet, in the back of scientists' minds some

would like dearly to bury him and place a tombstone

upon him, in the form of a scholarly textbook

devoted to the causes and effects of a whale banked.

A PRIZE POEM FROM PLANT PARTS

Any old tree will do, one with its heartwood
Exposed to the anatomy of poetry, any old
Sap can twig you with their branch of knowledge
Any old tree will do, if one can lop it at the right
Angle, so it will fall on a judge, best it be oak,
Hundreds of years old, difficult for them to dislodge,
Tons of history, from Chaucer to the misunderstood
On the internet, the green leaves spread out,
One takes them in hand, and reads the future
in the venation, follow the veins and the signs
to the serrated edge, then talk of to be loved
in terms of a season, budded in the cafe in Berlin,
while, and you see this in the pattern, you write
a poem about an old tree, he or she, in the light
of a Spring day, cast in golden ray, is in a word,
Life, now you capture, regeneration, the Green,
show your corporate responsibility, by a quote
from Thoreau, though you need to italicise
the experience, make sure you keep it remote
Next you lumber your reader with a list
like Edmund Spenser, of trees and of vegetation
you know that the act, the sexual union
needs some padding, some mot of suspense
But you could, have the gall, to think Kinsey,
And then the wasp, a conceit, stings them in the eye,
They are then blind to the awful paraphrase,
You know too that, vennation, is one letter away
So, you can graft Agatha Christie to the plot,
Then it is, from the seed grows a Billy Crudup,
Staged beauty, in the bark, from Othello
you go to dogwood, and Desmond Morris
to naked poet, revealed as the rings of a tree
to divination and misinterpretation and OH
The poem, an automaton now, wins by itself.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XX

Hart me boy, buoyed up by the start

of the day, we made much headway

in the composition

in the rendition

of the poetics

incarcerated

in the policy

across the big pond

Took us to new depths of interpretation

through the channel of Fox News

with flak to right, flak not from the left

we cut to the chase, found and almost grounded

on the chitchat and hatred of opinion

to the EL DORADO

to AF GHAN IS TAN

now a trillion dollar

BATTERY

read lithium,

we are rich, they cry from the

ill-bred Colosseum

we struck Gold

and now the towel-head

is chic

as a Sheik

in 1973

ALL OURS
ALL OURS

goes the cry of the vultures

goes the cry of the anchors

Hart and I

sombre

view

the land-locked

land of Afghanistan

as the land of the Free, if they will

let go of US liberty,

why does freedom cost your

country?

Oh la di da, we can go a shoppin'

Oh la di da, we can go a shoppin'

Get ourselves a new air conditioner

Get ourselves a new set of Louis Vuitton

Get ourselves a stretch tv screen to the planet Mars"

wait, the weight of the poem, weighs upon us

the sense of duty prescribes a pill

someone took out an injunction like cod-liver oil

we must take it as men, and abandon vers libre

they want us to measure in avoirdupois

the breath, the gesture, the image, the trope,

the whole darned thing, sinking us in statistics

but we got so far, quite nicely, avoiding the fuss

of paying attention to the feet and the dope

that interferes with our blinking ballistics

we have little enthusiasm for structure & form

however, if the fellow-traveller, was onboard

from the start and alloyed with Hart - me unemployed

him being departed - me being faint hearted,

you will notice, a strategy, a ploy, where upon,

sounds slush about the hull, going wherever they will,

and the grand notions - their integrity, lost in the first

flush, like the virginity of a reading, a cherry reddened

by the blush of nature and nurture, but you already

knew this was in the contract, when you climbed on board

our junk, and sailed to and through what others see as nonsense

you however, and we respect you, RESPECT, give us AUTHORITY,

to spout out, on all and sundry, in the terrifying guise

of

po

et

try

Elizabeth Taylor Eyes

glittering prizes and elizabeth taylor eyes

if only they would not, the two optic sirens,
drive the would-be academic to poetry
and drink, how many have fallen for the helens
of the hollywood, the plastic feature of a penelope
of thunderbirds,

glittering prizes and elizabeth taylor eyes

if only they were real, these blue marble orbs,
like those found in the wound-up barbie
and think, how many have fallen under the surgeon's
knife, tried to be alike, with stature of a jane
de mansfield,

glittering prizes and elizabeth taylor eyes

if only they were worthy of these pathetic comparsons
alive, and could be open to aesthetic possibilty
instead of a link, a step, a ruse, to unseating a geoffrey
over the Hill, and in one blink, gone the suitors
of Oxford.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XIX

nineteen

made it to nineteen

we count the isles of words

cavort in the numerical

like the kiddies with pebbles

ready to throw at bottles

we refuse to hunt for an allusion

or reference to 19

taking together a stance

against information that

sluttishly splashes on the screen

in its stead

on the bow

of the junk

we bond

in our determination

to be chimerical

to cock a snoot at the Empire

of the capital

to the conniving inhabitants

of the Off-shore accounts

peopled by fine interpretations

of the tax return

through the loop-holes

vast caravans of camel

lumber through, carrying

Byzantine weights

of treasure,

into the optic cables

from the four corners

of this planet's

geography,

we, that's me, and Hart,

in a ungrammatical combine,

seek to throw our pebbles

at these creatures of comfort

that lounge in luxuriousness

of unconscionable wealth

which we would with the sport

of the Jacobean, inflate to Godzilla

proportion, these wallowing

beasts, await the caravan

as it follows the Cyber Road

to arrive on isles, where yachts

cruise in sexy sleekiness, cutting

through injunctions, investigations,

through the Law, as in Philadelphia

Story says Katherine H, it is yar, yar

yar, and Hart and I, on board our

junk, think, oh it would be funnier

if

nobody was left unfed

Now we set sail for TWENTY

hoping, in a Swinburnian fashion, nobody

expects us to visit the LAND of PLENTY!

After Reading Byron's "Beppo"

Lightness of touch - like having a salad for lunch

is the impression one gets from his couplets

they sparkle with wit as the optics flit

from the story of Laura and Beppo

a kind of romantic Macflecknoe

I mean its satire that does conspire

with epic in short, as targets are sought

in comparison Venice and London

the latter is left wanting, the former

paradise for those who first peruse

will be swept away panting for more

by Byron's brilliant use of rhyme

he takes liberties with metre and form

tests our faculties with ease and no harm

but can we multitask and bear in mind

all those extras like soy, Harvy left behind?

Can we at this break-neck pace stay in one piece

Or in the transportation from A to B

seek only trivia that lay in his poetry?

There's a hole in my Mexican Gulf, dear electorate, dear electorate,

There's a hole in my Mexican Gulf, dear electorate, dear electorate,

Then fix it Mr. President, then fix it Mr. President,

With what shall I fix it, dear electorate, dear electorate?

With what shall I fix it, dear electorate, dear electorate?

With a nuclear war head, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President

With a nuclear war head, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, a nuclear war head,
The nuclear war head is too dangerous, dear electorate, dear electorate,
The nuclear war head is too dangerous, dear electorate, too dangerous,
Then disarm it, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
Then disarm it, dear Mr. President , dear Mr. President, disarm it.
With what shall I disarm it, dear electorate, dear electorate?
With what shall I disarm it, dear electorate, with what?
With a smile, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
With a smile, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, a smile.
The smile is too little, dear electorate, dear electorate,
The smile is too little, dear electorate, too little.
Then snarl, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
Then snarl, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, fake it.
At what should I snarl , dear electorate, dear electorate?
At what should I snarl , dear electorate, at what?
At BP, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
At BP, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, at BP.
BP is too powerful, dear electorate, dear electorate,

BP is too powerful, dear electorate, too powerful.
Then destroy it, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
Then destroy it, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,

With what shall I destroy it, dear electorate, dear electorate?
With what shall I destroy it, dear electorate, with what?
Try radiation, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
Try radiation, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, try radiation.
From where shall I get it, dear electorate, dear electorate?
From where shall I get it, dear electorate, from where?
From the military, dear Mr. President,dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
From the military, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, the military.
In what shall I send it, dear electorate, dear electorate?
In what shall I send it, dear electorate, in what?
In a nuclear war head, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President,
In a nuclear war head, dear Mr. President, dear Mr. President, in a nuclear war head.
There's a hole in my Mexican Gulf, dear electorate, dear electorate,
There's a hole in my Mexican Gulf, dear electorate, a hole.

World Cup Blues

Oh Lord I have a tv – and I switch it on
And all I get Lord is football and football

So Lord I tried to get on with reading a book
And all I get Lord is football and football

So Lord I tried to go out for a long walk
And all I get Lord is football and football

Oh Lord I love culture – and I read poetry
And all I get Lord is football and football

So Lord I tried to read for a change prose
And all I get Lord is football and football

Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues
Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues

So Lord I tried to sleep through the week
And all I could dream of was football and football

So Lord I tried drinking some beer then whisky
And all I could get was football and football

So Lord I tried cocaine and heroin and got high
And all I could see was a vision of football and football

Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues
Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues

So Lord I decided to finish myself and went to Heaven
And all you could do, was to turn me into a football

Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues
Now that they will kick me!
Now that they will kick me!

Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues

Oh Lord what can you do for WC blues

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XVIII

sabaH al-khair

with the tapped telephone - Hart and I

are suspected of being at one

with those with the Devil hair

instead intense eavesdroppers

you are mistaken, we are with arms stretched

surrendering to the morning sun

basking in the glory of the bleached

sands, where we find no day-trippers

only the peace of the shore, its girdle

of seaweed and pearls of detritus

the frigate bird with red goitre

and the snowy white terns

the robber crabs clipping like barbers

in the Bronx or downtown Tahiti

the palm trees leaning drunk

like sailors who Hart knew, and the

ones who I spot in Denmark,

Europe, the fish flipping in the ripple

of the sunlit water, the coconut

abandoned like a large tennis ball

that last saw Wimbledon in 1924

SabaH al-khair

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XVII

Suffering catfish, if I lived to be
the ass of a mynah bird, I would
mimic my fart and call it Art.

Got your attention now, in the bombastic
John underDonne way with Southern fries,
Note, Hart and I, we are buddies like Dante
and Virgil, we get along in the fantastic,
the Rosemary Jackson, kind of thing,
cept, it is in a kinda po-et-try
As our mate Owen Wilson says when
the day is not a bummer, just "living the life"
We are, pretty, stoked, it is pathetic
that the catfish in the Naturalistic
setting should suffer at all, but then the
duck paddling along like a Twain steamer,
above, mind, it has one, fixed on food,
As W.V Quine would opine, what would a
lion say if it could speak, not much, "Meat"
and thus our duck with webbed feet paddles
into the wide open mouth of the catfish,

So suffering duck, if I lived to be the nipple
of a wizard, I would conjure myself to flex
deltoids to the tune of a fretted dulcimer,

Got your attention twice, in the repeat,
the sit-com I have seen this so many times
I love Lucy way, or the zany Phyliss Diller,
who is still scooting along, fine thank you,
ordered with a take out of Mighty Taco
fa-ji-ta , note again for the deja-vu
that Hart and I, are poetry buddies in spirit
of , now I can't think of anybody - next
actor, dragged in, is our Tom Cruise dancing
the Latino shinbang as the Grossman, bold
as a sergeant bilko, we get along in the
William Empson manner, no ambiguity
about our relations, just purely literary,
On board the junk, sails open like bedsheets
drying on a steamy lazy afternoon,
we are sailing into the encyclopedia
will meet the odd cyclone and typhoon,
the odd maelstrom, and the odd American Dream,

Espiritualidade não é só rezar e meditar. Você precisa agir

Espiritualidade não é só rezar e meditar. Você precisa agir

Paulo Coelho June 7 2010

The sunrise takes the Earth each morning

as if by surprise, those caught unawares

in the middle of meditation, absorbed inside

the metaphysics of consciousness, humming

a mantra or releasing their energy, in prayers,

as the sun comes up, its mass large upon the horizon

coloring the skies with the act of rising an equation

that the universe calculates to the nth degree

there we see the good and righteous locked in spirit

and by the time they waken to life, it is then the sunset.

Indifference

the giraudon cover
garish with odalisque
and what seems like funeral
flowers, the foreword by
Jean-Paul Sartre
so we have a cheap copy
of Les Fleurs du Mal
with the Nadar mugshot on back
it rests near the keyboard
like a serpent coiled to spring
its navy blue tongue to sense
what is my indifference
to the awkward writing
that has gone under the radar
to be unpublished, gone to rot
like the garlic sprouting a green
shoot, then turning in chimeric
process, into the decadence
of another state, and folded
neatly inside the descriptive
phase, the countless personae
an interaction with You
and a message for the other you
we are like two books left on a table
read only our internal narratives
our lives and loves, between covers,
and never quite manage to overcome
the gap of reading outside of ourselves
perhaps it is because
indifference
sets
in

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XVI

Lay, boom, boom, lay

Lay, boom, boom, lay

So the oil drums do play

So the oil drums do play

In the sea, on a voyage

In the sea, on a voyage

the reverie of Vachel

Lindsay, we do pay

a courtesy call, a study

of the perverse, as we

Hart and I, have no truck

with racial beat, we reverse

the flow of hate, and

Lay, boom, boom, lay

Lay, boom, boom, lay

ain't that a mantra

of the 20th century

war and peace, sex and

violence, Hell, Hart, we could

do better than perplex

the reader with high falutin

games, have Chuck Baudelaire,

wearing an ostrich feather

looking all chic and ready

for a voyage, inviting us

to love, Looove,

look we - we have them on,

kid them, rag them,

take them on a voyage,

where reader's squint,

to read between the lines

where the bloody big whale

spouts a torrent of bi-sex

spring, and subsequently

parodies Hem and Sherwood

like Velasquez at the door

and the postmodern squit

Oh the thrill of the Mirror

Look at yourself!

The syntax and sound

is at variance with the Age

we need to dress in skin-tight

latex, as two old Queens, knight

the listener with a squall

of

I want you come inside

me now Baby

nice and easy

Oh shooting stars & Spiders on Mars

we pucker our lips

into rosy ass-holes

to whistle

the tune of

indifference

as the Cyberboys upload us

in their vehicles

of dominance

tie us up, gain our submission

in the Act of Rape

like the lonely Pontiac cruising

picking up

the broads

Lay, boom, boom, boom, lay

the prequel

Is the T.S. Eliot secretary in the

Wasteland and poor Vivian

in the looney bin

Cos

Cause

Tom and Viv inhabited two worlds

he the spiritual - she the physical

Those cyberboys

locked in

the

Virtual

like as we declare, in a Southern way,

as the magnolia in bloom,

so does the need to inflict

Agony

in

the

private

Pontiac

in

the

woods

of

the

Internet

Now Hart and I do not subscribe

to these values

that

begin with

the

Pin-up girl or boy

and

end

in

ashes to ashes

We, breach, like our whale does

the conventional

bubble

that

is

blown

by

the silicon

dream

Valley

we

sail

away

on our analog

junk

boys

sail

through

the

Gates

of

Hell.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XV

For C.

Are you awake my lovely to the sun

that ties the bow of radiance upon the night

presents us with the morning and the audience

of a tree or two, then the shops across with

mannequins, early workers, the crows and

the blackbirds, as the stage of day opens

into the consciousness,

Are you awake my lovely to the rays of

light that describe the morning narrative

like paint by numbers, filling in form and feature,

as all life from the greyness of sleepiness

now animated, like the feline friend with a paw

taking with meticulous and loving attention

the strands of your hair, so begins the day

Are you awake my lovely to the presence

of my words, that in my absence colour and shade

my love, as you lay for a moment in bed, stretch

and yawn, ready yourself for the enterprise

of writing and creating, a poem or an essay

that will like the gentle breeze dissipitate

the vague and nebulous into a moonlike clarity

Are you awake my lovely....

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XIV

In the view stretching like a long

tumbling lawn from an expansive

Henry James' novel, we will Hart,

undoubtedly arrive at a not so

satisfactory conclusion as to whether

the Art is in the metrical precision,

i.e. that one promotes descriptive

design and cold intent, or whether

it is the short but tense vocalisation

of a HD that has the economy

of a walnut, but the ambition

of a Pantheon.

In the long run, leaving the

rambling dawn from a repressive

rhyming James Elroy Flecker poem,

dragging our ears through the mill

and plugging them with daffodil

We emerge in the clearing of a morning

blessed with the 21st century

the shock of an espresso

like the refusal of an ATM machine

like the tongue on the portrait

of a coke cup, touching the arching rim,

full to the brim with fizziness

of fractal derivatives, a vernacular

taunt of what's up, what goes up

goes down, and in the vista, we see

the millpond still of innocence

before the frontier of numbers

as they line the horizon across

the breadth of the universe

we feel unable, incapable,

like the honeymooner at the

Niagara Falls, we are rendered

impotent by the complexity

of our ignorance, as it forms

and crystalizes into technology

that sends us to Coventry.

Hart Crane Homeward Bound XIII

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.