This is a Journal entry by voonmaynard
poem of the week no.1
voonmaynard Started conversation Jan 29, 2005
Dawn Of The Wasteland
Today T.S., your monarchy,
Is complete!
Death dawns these veils of accomplishment,
Wrought, flawlessly in that cool blue flesh;
Nude behind her granite shroud-
Like perfect oils on a hemp canvas.
The people, Tom,
Are coming to burn you!
Gray clouds, old meat;
The exhausted eyes have all been
Pushed aside by some grander creation.
Mister Eliot,
The true death is near!
You extend your hands to the ground,
Embed it within a stone image,
Over which the complex firmament
Shatters, like glass.
Herr Eliot,
The new faction has noted
Your name in it’s ledger!
In Belsen, the redundantly sad faces,
Have been crated, fed to the incinerator-
It sucked them down, like a starved child,
Equipped with virgin fangs.
The demon, Eliot,
Is pointing at you.
The straw men dance, and sing in the streets,
Guzzling their spirits, groping among
The silly fat cherubs, who wrap their infant lips,
Around bottles of flaming grain alcohol,
Abandoned their ethereal trumpet song.
You are enervated
In your age,
Imitating your mature poets steal-
Tucked neatly behind a mausoleum wall;
Laughing at my admiration!
People are killing each other in the streets!
Justlikethat, your promised wasteland is here.
Today the gods rejoice, and split their greedy grins.
Subversive fingers move swiftly, to clear away
The curse of our consciousness.
Shall we step then briskly, into the quiet night-
Leave our feet to echo along those walls;
Down silent streets, until our souls would reach,
To meet the blush of these lucid skies,
And move us east, to kiss that sick red eye?
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poem of the week no.1
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