Saturday, February 14, 2015

Banging on a Drum

How do you do I’m a poem
I jingle when I walk
And sweat calliopes of salt
As the metaphors begin to boil
And the words crash into one another
Describing sand. There is a club for this
And a punch to the belly
We live in an age of nincompoops
The mouth pleads for an amiable nose
And gets a sunrise instead
But that’s ok I like the feeling of light
Falling on a punctuation of hills
As the great engine of Bach
Makes the gears and wheels move
The peremptory provocations of age
Permit me to say things
Behind the garage
They say time is money
I say time is a sequined dragon
In a milieu of hallucination
Called language
An apparition washes over me
Like a spot of grease
Redolent of beautiful gloom
Sir John Falstaff arrives in a Cadillac
And takes us the rest of the way
To the frontier of the mind
Which is a mecca for nonsense
What else can you do
But plunge into life
And when death comes
Crawl into a cocoon
It’s fun and intensely athletic
To let yourself go
If this were a song it would sound like water
But it’s not it’s a pool of blood
Banging on a drum 

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