Cross my heart, hope to die—
It looks like they’re droppings
Of flies, the eschatological
Ephemera of poets who swear
Their shit will last and not
Stink to high heaven forever—
Though from where I sit,
It all smells a little too much
Like a downright rotten white lie.
The virtual world's so dense with the stuff it's hard to see through to the poetry that matters. Good to know that a sharp head and a discerning ear still at work in Hellas.
ReplyDeleteyes. much of that going on these days.
ReplyDeleteDon't know how you two feel but I get the feeling the fly swatter's smacked me more times than I can count and I still keep coming back for more. Hard lesson to learn.
ReplyDelete