Friday, July 1, 2011


Love songs have been sung to death.
No more! For pity's sake, no more.
Love poems have gushed too much.
Deliver me from Neruda's stinking juices!

It's high time to catch God in a snare.
When he squeals we'll have our quarry.
A sky of stars is dumb and too much.
Why sing onto a canvas without context?

The plot is staggering. All are drunken.
It's high time to shoot a sparkle rocket
into Heaven and explode all the angels.
A shower of indignant, dumbfounded angels!
We'll gather them up for a hard interrogation.
However they answer, we'll have a verdict:
to sing and sigh and weep and gush?...
or to stand stoically in a pool of juices?

Love poems have gushed entirely too much
around the sealed lips of the world's presence.

Ha!...because I ache I turn to metaphysics.
I'll twist an angel's arm until I hear it squeal,
"It is written: one day you shall be met."

Oh, hell...there's nothing to be done for it --

Her eyes kindle the East of mornings.
Her silence holds the Source of rivers.
I've never heard her natural laughter.
But I know it would sparkle darkly
and cushion all of my fallen years.


  1. OMG! I love this. I feel as if love poem and songs are now white washed. Vanilla. Over done. Trite. It's been said. Move on. There is more to life that love. I ain't going there with the angels...but I'm on board with the love poems. Am I seriously the only one to comment here? WTF? I have no confidence in our society any more. By society, I mean human. I, apparently, am your number one fan. As it should be, my dear. As it should be.

  2. You are so kind to me, Annie. Thank you for showing up and for your comments. Here's how I cope: the worst poetry garners the vastest audience. Ha!