RING
OF THE HOURS
1- The
oldman in coat-tails
is
beyond the reach
Of
purring sundowns;
he,
in the tropical cemetery,
Is
contained in convulsing circuits
of
decaying reality.
So
many giggling hyenas gnaw out his brain
while
he lies on his spine
And
imagines the celadon wastes
stretching
their deeps
To a
placental journey's conclusion.
2- This
fervent youth throws bricks
at
a hairless statue
Which
falls classically, cracks empty.
The
temple door shuts and opens
to
close again.
In
this far emptiness, the defeated genuflect,
the
altar, the volant sword,
Is
lost in delusion.
Here,
the living heroes are bestowed with pain,
they
howl repetitively over loudspeakers
Amplifying
their condition.
Receiving
signals from Aldebaran,
a
twittering blanker than riveted stars,
The
defeated shoot their sperm,
Jerking off across the vacuum in vain.
3- The
young hero is an old man returning to stone,
with
muffled steps in retroaction,
He
carries the weight of his seed,
his
body is always heavy.
RW, first draft, 1967,
latest draft, 15.XII.92.
Copyright, Rory Winter 2013
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