A Century of Stone
The Riviera’s quiet now:
No more weeping for
The clay hands of an idiot coupling
That stabbed itself in the stone of its back.
The latest stab at love dissolves
To grainy pictures on a mobile phone
And a second pair of coloured eyes
That positively glowed.
And
the world is built on glass and gold
That the brave alone may see,
But he who summons fire
Should beware of what he dreams.
I fell upon my satellites
You have yours, I know.
Does our princess loll her tongue around
A century of stone?
* - * - *
Harpies rose beneath the cafe lights:
Magnolias and belladonnas
Writhing and coiling:
Your Ulysses walked among them. |
Where childlike breastless sphinxes
Rubbed their paws inside their skirts, purring:
“One of these is pleasure, love,
But both of them are work.”
And the world is built on glass and gold
That the brave alone may see,
But he who summons fire
Should beware of what he dreams.
Now aerials puncture heavens
Where your heroes thought they’d roam
As gods scale down the deal
To a century of stone.
* - * - *
Now the sweet girls fleet of Cleopatra gestures retreats
You reverted to type at the turn of the tide, ever politic.
Your surrogates in pillowtalk expound upon the cause;
Moans of hotel memories sail on into the dark
Where drunken desert fumbles find
A pair of trunkless legs
I know you too have looked upon them
Tell me what they meant to you
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