"THE BELLS ! THE BELLS !!"
Men turned their backs on poetry
long before it lost its rhyme.
Turned their backs and looked-aweay.
"Poetry is dead," they now chime.
"Poetry is dead," they now chime
with a funny kind of glee,
as if of some great hump-like burden
they can go swinging free.
"Poetry is dead," they now chime,
"rung has the death-knell."
But I swing on the pull-rope
that sounds a different bell !
THE GOOD GODS?
Organised religions.
Divisional origins -
in the name of one Good-Lord -
violate the other with the sword.
IT'S-THE-ARROWY-SWIFT-LIFE-HERE
I'm straight as an arrow.
Find no desire to bend
like a bow or an elbow,
though life weave and wend.
Give me girls in my flight
towards the dying of the light.
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