String-less Poet

Sexless and godless,
String-less old tool;
Consumed with a guilt archetypal.
Shoeless lover,
Drunk on the open night sky.

Filled with crusts of bread and brawn,
A Welsh hero with no bones
In his insides, no dust to call
Living a hushed opus,
What a Greek tragedy he be!
A divine comedian
Toying with pathos and melody.

In togas to the precipice
Of the fiery inferno,
Calling out a lonely violin wail
In cantata cries
Amongst the swirling symphony
Of life’s rich waistcoat,
Lost in the stitching and mending.

In dissonance with each star
With no Sistine ceiling,
This was hardly a death a loyal trojan expects,
As he falls on his sword in exposition
And swears Zeus called him an ass,
Return did he with Titans ash.

Lashed to this martyrs navel
Out in the rain in Prague,
After the wars
Which stole the light of the world.
Breathing shallow steady in
Roast clouds of espresso,
Sometime in the ’60’s,
The colours changed.

By words bewitched
In muddy pencil,
In love with this and this and this,
Feign romance with a guitar.
Useless poet and no strings,
Reeking melancholy
On sepia letters charred love stained Steppenwolf,
Smoked in Souchong and cigarette,
Hid away in old attics and webs
And dusty books;
Mornings all fizz and aches.

Exploring silences and bird speak,
A bum embroiled in dharma consequence,
Living to be alone in a bebop tree house hewn of wet
And nests of writhing nematodes.
Greedy for poverty of his right

Muse lain
Prone in bitter strokes of something majestic,
Burnt out young
Rolling his own bohemia
As one last bush fire
Leaves a pair of smoking leather boots and trails of exotic fruits
And no destinations.

Not hear long enough
To witness the setting sun from an
Over spilled ashtray.
Waltz away,
Never quite unified,
Pretensions towards Lucifer’s paradise
And ever falling flat faced
And all this to impress the girls
Who come around.

The cadence is simply this
For the islands last romantic,
In the corners of musty hearts
A rose bush gently withers.


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