Happy birthday, Brutus, my friend of late
Whose Queen of Muses stands high, awaits
The happiest of happies hence, O Creator
Down my lover’s rabbit-hole ’tis better;
But crave or drive or worship or flee
Drink down the summer wine’s warm pedigree,
“The film noir queen steps down from the screen
and waters my orchids with her tears”;
I build skyscrapers in imaginary heavens
swarmed by gardens warm and mad;
I hear heavy metal saints singing to their
Battalions, and I dream what I never had.
And here, here comes the oily tide!
And the irradiated glow of sick wormwood.
Our Chernobyl, our stupid cataclysm,
Our complacent stare at the colored tube,
And banal peasant chatter filling the air,
As fetid lives await the black seas,
Wrecking Nature’s delicate symphony,
Au revoir, sanity!
Sayonara, fragilest Spring!
Kiss goodbye grasshopper-summers,
as Satan seduces the world again.
But here are there dancers, poets, and friends,
and here is there wine enough, and (as yet) no end.
What comes around goes away,
With rough sweetness she came to play,
now disappeared without a trace!
And I’m stuck in a Purgatorio’s train station
Strumming for the invisible guardians of fate.
What comes around always goes away
On the dark plank of uncertainties–
I see the angry storms mottle these
pseudo-tropical horizons, electric entities
prodding me till love leaps up into the
Firmament of a truer freedom’s kingdom,
Soaring ineffably around the blue realms
Like an ancient mystic returned
To reclaim his singing futures, quite like
the Romans–and I mean the poets–and quite
like the moments I polish with words,
for your mindgallery seasons you’ll carry with you
Throughout all your lives, in all the universes,
Though you die here and leap from the morass into the
Silver-lightning’d Infinity with a silken heart,
Riding a blue star of phantom grace.