Sunday, August 23, 2009


The metal behemoths and puppies
still snake around the concrete pastures
While the faces of deranged hippies
Fly about the back of my head in raptures

They warn me like persistent fireflies
That the hour of Cromwell's passing is nigh
Yet I'd rather remain here with my cries
And wait for him to help me, and then die.

For hope is gone.

A picture...
A memory long frozen in the recesses
A soul...
A perpetual desire to break free
A screen...
A manifestation of portents unfathomable
A heart...
A particular blob of flesh we always cry on

The pitch-black canopy of the night sky
Of the ghetto of wisdom and capitalist excess
Ironically baptized after a revolutionary society
Rejected by these ghettoes and wenches

Plays its colors and produces illusions of that color
That Hitler's acolyte splashed on our sidewalks
That indicates health, fertility and excitement
That is the rallying call of my queer siblings
That is the color of the yogurt which reminds me of you.

Yes you. You never left my mind, though you never acknowledge it.

My cruel Rosalind, you are not imagined.
You are in the same plane of existence as I am
Yet I have been as significant as a dead ram
To my greetings you give a mere blank stare
In the room of the deceitful master that I dare
Stand up, sit down and try to comprehend
The words of a sage that I have not a hand
Kill me with longing, yes, I have expected
But with empty eyes, worse than executed.

Or maybe it is just the conceits
Of my soul's countless defeats
That asks the sage biting his nails
To be more benevolent with his hails

Or perhaps it is about time
Of my demise dictated in rhyme
To let go, go on, on with the flow
That shall make me bury my sorrow.

Yet how could it be?
I cannot forget thee.

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