Friday, August 17, 2012
To Lord Byron
You were what streaks a lucid lake
a skimming green bird, a shooting star
antithesis of a lizard’s walk
cumulus clouds tumbling in
its sandpaper belly
a roaring, restless wave.
You were the subtexts
embroidered in red and gold
configurations of a lovers blanket;
near-caresses, a renaissance exhale.
Sir, I believe your cloudless climes-
in my sweaty verses, be found,
All the precious trifles you dropped
fleeing from embrace to embrace
I confess I stole them, treasured in
sparkling candy wrappers
decorating my inky songs
my drunken muse, my drummer
carrying a loved regret in your bones
a Dionysian delirium
I dream of catching your tail,
a velvety wing, if only you had a spare seat
you egoistic aristocrat, solipsistic monster!
But see, I have a death grip on your ankle
And I am joining you, forever, in your
ecstatic, terrifying, brakeless flight.