In Hades seven poets
pasting pips on paper crowns
facedown on the sidewalk
holding seven falcons down
woke to find the sugar vein
clogged by golden tusk
and the Genius of the Galaxies
was just shit out of luck.
When seven poets wobble down
the racetrack of the dawn
riding lazy Sensitivity
like bangers of the gong
who spin in gyres like goblins
whose experiments go wrong
when they trade their tongues for bullshit
then say, "Don't you love my song?"
Seven poets claim the globe
of earth and eye and breast
while their dietetic revolution
starves out all the rest
I pray for wolves and pray for beasts
to pry them from their pens
to strip them of their peacock pose
and show them stunted hens.
_______
also shared with The Sunday Muse #252. Image by Ruven Afanador