Veiled as for a Funeral, Not a Wedding
We have that face. We have those written lines.
It’s difficult to say just which is more
Poetic, hero doomed by death’s designs,
Or poetry abandoned by the whore,
That smelly adolescent. Words obscure
The meanings and the edges of the face
In sort of parallels of the impure,
Resulting in an image by a mace
Deployed at the head and at the verse
That brain unleashed. He put his words above
The rest of life until they bored him. Worse
Than that he scrawled his way away from love.
..The image is a bastard of his head
…And lines which he discarded like the dead.