Friday, March 15, 2013

4190. NOTHING LIKE

NOTHING LIKE
There is nothing like bird speck on a pale horizon,
or some sickening painting of a scene of death -
all those king's horses and knights in armor bloodied
and dead on the field - to bring me home for a rest.
Refresher courses in bullshit art I do not need. The
medieval scholar, the Professor of Smirk, all those
Princeton guys with fat books for commercial heads,
they make me run off screaming. Who runs this
dog-like place, some other creature from the kennel?
I walk the trees towards Nassau Hall and wonder why :
where anyway am I headed and for what? All this old
colonial drivel covering lies and covering twisted tales.
Names of voracious men eating anything in their way,
that's all I hear. This was a Christian farm for mama's
boys when it all began, and not much else. What do
we have today? The same crap, but with an international
and guttural outreach so paltry as to lose all focus or
want. The cock crows every fifteen minutes around
here, and they ring the bells of decorum while the
ivy-lingered windows gape and grumble. The little
train in the distance, with all its turgid noises, just
comes and goes, over and over again, all day long.
Nothing like a regular plum to bring the doctor home.

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