P OEMS. To wake yourself up to the gray And well-worn ruts of dull routine That start another futile day. Before you lies a pointless scene Enacted by an unchanged troupe In well-worn ruts of dull routine. A newsreel in an endless loop, Your life runs like a puppet show Enacted by an unchanged troupe. Nothing strange, bizarre, nouveau? No hope of exit from this place? Your life runs like a puppet show. You want some thunder-stroke of grace To prompt your exit from this place?
A razor-stroke against the skin Is one way that you can begin. A poet would rather compose a line for a girl than hand her one. Versecraft twines the viol with the vineβ A Goliardic rhapsody wherein Desire strives to generate a line Rather than grease the skids for carnal sin.
Ladies, though, will grieve When men prefer blank paper to smooth flesh. Ah, well⦠we poets versify romance, And miss what coarser types call the main chance. Return to Poems Menu. It may have once pumped through the feral heart Of some reptilian monster, now extinct; Or been of rolling oceans a small part, Or lost in tropic vapors, indistinct;.
Urine from a bargeman who once staled Over the side of his well-laden raft, Or in the buckets when tense crewmen bailed The cold sea from their stove and listing craft. Few know that as water, vapor, or as ice Each droplet is an heirloomed pearl of price.
It took dominion everywhere. The bank was a pebble-strewn kaleidoscope Of flint and jasper, quartz, shale, sandstone, jet⦠And then I saw it, like a single hope Left in a flood of disappointment.
