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The Albatross

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Poetry from Kurt Broz.

 

If William ran today

In fortresses without culture

Would the herring 

Sing of 

Coils?

And what of wolves prowling

Streets sooty and empty

Expanses?

Would the woodwinds

Bring mirth

Consternation

And silly tricks?

Can turtles paint their shells,

Carve their homes of stone,

With popped plastic?

Metal marshes of smoky

Caterpillars empty true

Romance

 

And rape 

Artistic foray.

Integrity is Prometheus, exposed

To the dark birds.

In your hollow hallowed 

Basement cellars of supposed

Wonderment,

Excrement, feverishly brutish

Yet wrapped in swaddling 

Cloth no man 

Makes love to woman as

Within the free.

Darkness, you, hatred 

Breeder… swollen on your

Crystal scallop.

 

My pings and pangs and

Clanking gears 

And magnanimous 

Consumption of insurmountable

Obtuse metaphorical

Theoretical rhetoric of 

Stadium proportions rend 

My heart closed.

Wake up my sleepy hands

To stroke a brush or

Burn a woodshed.

With miles to linger

Until the drapery drips little red

Fuzzy balls 

 

Floating and rolling,

Tumbleweeds of magnitude

Unmentioned by scribes.

The close of day brings

Only unending forever

To contemplate the lost youth and

Deadly hope

Of redemption. 

Wonder why I changed to…

Silver box.

Silly, silver box,

In William’s shadow I am a puppet,

Strutting without merit,

Nonsensical rhymes,

Second fiddle,

Folding chair.

 

Do the cardboard flames

Make the musical

House of sin

Dance with you?

Or am I the punch-line

Of the killing joke?

 

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