the myth of the obscure

[revolutionrabbit]

these written people
smitten with themselves
on their little pope box
how they grope for largesse
of the steamy underbelly
sniffing panties
worn by the hounds of war

ah the more obscure
that we are, the better
we can perfect the art
of deception, these deep cuts
on our forearms, like 15 carat
diamond psychic slash in the
souls of the fireaters and breathers

if i read some Roman orator
like Seneca i could wax eloquent
and spiral into infinity with a perspective
i could smile into the falcon's eyes
the very Empire at my feet in a written note, ah now
smote with a well carved adjective, crafted out of merde
and the pleasure of persuasion, the good turd in the mouth
of saints and De Sade's trollop

but here i am only a clown among bird shit on statues
and these mountebank pasters of the poetic marvelous
all learned their lessons well, read Shakespeare
with the lesser gods in some straight jacket ivy league
could mezmerize the lines into believing they were
cast to memory

ah, alas, but it's the spaces between the great lines
that they forget so well, they learned to forget the
impossible, so that those immortal phrases were
snaking deep into the core of their being, the tragic
that never knows the tragedy, never really feels
what Macbeth feels when eye of Newt becons
but how could they,they are blue bloods dressed
in hobo duds, never did they taste the iconic floods
the deluge was not their's to plague the prophet raven

waited on shattered shores with up thrust torch for the boat
of a thousand dreams in golden liquors of false dawns
or "about to sail away in a junk" like Li po
contemplating the moon in a wandering sky
how many slow boats to China have we followed
in Poe's eyes as he drank the gutter all the way
through the earth to the other side

no, they gesticulate american idols on a crumpling alter
brandishing their pen swords to vanquish the shadows
though they are stewed to the gills in shadow boxes
their prunes have been all been shrunken like heads
and their pale thin lines have been sacrificed to Jove

nor, do they have the look that never goes a roving
their's is given to grand eloquent buffoonery, forever
lost in some Falkner novel under a terrible magnolia tree
drinking poison from a paper cup made of their crap novels
but even if Elmore Leonard should kill the blonde on the first
date, like he does, they would never be able to fuck her
on the last page, they never make it to the fame for evermore

[hester_prynne]

I read this, and just sat there, stunned in the impact of this incredible piece. Then I read it again a few times to make sure I wasn't just getting carried away with something.
Another fantastic revolution, rabbit.
I am indeed a fan.
H

[SadLuckDame]

This too, stunned me. It carried me off, the strength in lines.
"drinking poison from a paper cup made of their crap novels "
I read that there's no emotion in just a line, the emotion appears in a paragraph. Though, I think you've proved it incorrect.

[mtmynd]

powerful stuff that could make
one drunk on wonder, belching awe...

[revolutionrabbit]

do you know somebody that is drunk on wonder?

[mtmynd]

more than once...

[Nazz]

I tell ya, the whole place is going digital and numb, corporate and mercenary. "Blue bloods dressed in hobo duds." "Drinking poison from a paper cup made of their crap novels." Wow. I hear they just buried Poe. Again.