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