Philologists Play Pianos

Dead Rock Stars, not

enough cocktails,

even when the waxing

 

sun begins to heat

 

the Earth, our aspersions

are cast; lonely and

 

sullen, we beseech the sky,

a fearful maiden, indeed.

 

Heroes in the park walk

slowly towards

a sad island, a trail

 

of a thousand tears,

 

a mask, crisp and cool,

like an icy morning, like

a girl you once loved,

 

a vin diagram, a multiplex,

trash talking, speed walking,

 

dogs of all colors, a blackstar

of semblance, then we count;

 

1, 2, 3

 

4, 5, 6…

 

1, 2, 3

 

4, 5, 6…

 

and stop… we forget,

we weep, and bow and transfer

 

our energies, like jazz at 3 a.m.,

like mother may I,

infernal and intrinsic, beauty and bust,

credulous and creed, our hand

steadies

 

the beat, and one riff becomes

another, and forward thinkers

are handcuffed for thought

 

crimes.

 

Angry gods make for bad

bed fellows — what’s true today

will follow you to the end,

 

wise mean say a lot of things,

it takes but one mirror and a

license, and your beard grows

when you sleep.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on June 30, 2016.

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