Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Shelley to His Cell Phone

I've met no one yet who can blow
more than clouds upon an Astor's bloom
when not taught what every bastard knows
that life is a slow stuttering towards doom
and that their crypt only holds a kingly dust
as whores of wisdom train thighs of rust.
To move beyond fitful sleep, and drone
among bee-pestered poets of a past age
to sharpen night and to scrape and hone
the blood of anger to fill an unholy page
with the trials of men who found no god
while looking for the glories of life
knee-deep in their philosophy, feet shod
with excuses and with regrets rife


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