metaphorically juvenilia,

April 5, 2008 at 8:29 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 14 Comments
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he claims to love you, very well, it is some comfort
that there are still good men, men who are still,
i do not know all of you and never will,
there will always be something inside of you not mine,

you might have it a delicate garden then
i shall be the storm which scatters petals which
destroys the geometry of ancient garden mazes made
from genteel English manners and the whitest of wines

into a riot of pass-who-will since we shoulder
arms pitchforks and burning effigies,
he is dead madame and his library burned,
no more parasols and smiles

nor Venetian waltzs in fancy dress
until you fulfill that promise you made,
the poets all fled long ago stifling obscenities,

very well, she says with a sigh
and looking at her watch,
i suppose so,

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