My first poem was a neat one –
The octagonal world trapped
In the geometry of words.
My metaphors were accurate
Like an atomic watch.
I wrote more and less sure of myself
And my prepositions.
I was no more the poet of many beginnings.
I saw time growing
On the tower-clocks of trees
And the sky stuffed with lizards.
My poems were no more neat.
Now I have troubles with my landlord.
I worry over my poems growing thinner.
My last one was
As short as a curse.
I sit and watch
The evening explode into
Roof-tops of boys and a lot of kites.
I hear a boy sing,
“Rose is red;
Grass is green and
Remember me
When I am
Dead, dead, dead.
- Debonair, Dec.1978
The octagonal world trapped
In the geometry of words.
My metaphors were accurate
Like an atomic watch.
I wrote more and less sure of myself
And my prepositions.
I was no more the poet of many beginnings.
I saw time growing
On the tower-clocks of trees
And the sky stuffed with lizards.
My poems were no more neat.
Now I have troubles with my landlord.
I worry over my poems growing thinner.
My last one was
As short as a curse.
I sit and watch
The evening explode into
Roof-tops of boys and a lot of kites.
I hear a boy sing,
“Rose is red;
Grass is green and
Remember me
When I am
Dead, dead, dead.
- Debonair, Dec.1978
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