Poetry One

Yet, and yet again
Death becomes an art
And the palates of the artists go weary in crimson.
Gory pages fill up the novelists’ appetite
And suddenly there’s nothing trite to write.

Death is romantic, if you are beautiful.

Through generalizations of fabulous Comrades the
Numbers pile up and then as history says years
Later, people learn the facts and not the
Sensibilities, the awkward sensibilities that
Should have healed mankind of the
Plague.

Ideas rot like a dead rats, and from the
Carcass of the old, the new born
Flies pollute the world, and then perhaps in a peasants’
Home a sweet speaking angel shows her tender breasts
And helps prolong the dream.
   

The larger self creates the larger things
The puny self indulges in the larger things.