The Albatross by Kurt Broz
If William ran today
In fortresses without culture
Would the herring
Sing of
Coils?
And what of wolves prowling
Streets sooty and empty
Expanses?
Would the woodwinds
Bring mirth
Consternation
And silly tricks?
Can turtles paint their shells,
Carve their homes of stone,
With popped plastic?
Metal marshes of smoky
Caterpillars empty true
Romance
And rape
Artistic foray.
Integrity is Prometheus, exposed
To the dark birds.
In your hollow hallowed
Basement cellars of supposed
Wonderment,
Excrement, feverishly brutish
Yet wrapped in swaddling
Cloth no man
Makes love to woman as
Within the free.
Darkness, you, hatred
Breeder… swollen on your
My pings and pangs and
Clanking gears
And magnanimous
Consumption of insurmountable
Obtuse metaphorical
Theoretical rhetoric of
Stadium proportions rend
My heart closed.
Wake up my sleepy hands
To stroke a brush or
Burn a woodshed.
With miles to linger
Until the drapery drips little red
Fuzzy balls
Floating and rolling,
Tumbleweeds of magnitude
Unmentioned by scribes.
The close of day brings
Only unending forever
To contemplate the lost youth and
Deadly hope
Of redemption.
Wonder why I changed to…
Silver box.
Silly, silver box,
In William’s shadow I am a puppet,
Strutting without merit,
Nonsensical rhymes,
Second fiddle,
Folding chair.
Do the cardboard flames
Make the musical
House of sin
Dance with you?
Or am I the punch-line
Of the killing joke?
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