furthling

Red is just ridiculous, Orange is artifice and rust, Yellow's atmospheric, pretty to a fault, Green is home, gestalt. Blue is deep and intellectual, Purple is exotic and insane, And white is grief, the color of the world. But Black. Black is human. Black is sex and the imagination. Black is marks on paper Pupil of the eye.

Beware the modern poet crying out Against the steady rhythms of the heart. There's no truth in the dance for him, just doubt, And nothing of the Poet's primal Art. Artlessly, he mocks the metronome, For artless freedom is his opium. A vice that deadens in the Poet's bones His secret legacy: the Shaman's Drum, Whose steady rhythms as today, men rode To ecstasy when speech itself was young! This ink and paper: only dessicated Text. A thirst that only voice can quench. With fluid verse, distilling saturated Speech that leaves imagination drenched. Dare to shun what modern poets did, In elevating private thoughts to where They stu

Youth so soon is lithe of body, strong in arm, Almost invincible (never immortal). Whence its gift for suffering and lack of charm, Artless and maundering, making us chortle? Lead to think the heart is for a narrow use, (Badly instructed-- and we are to blame!) They set it on someone they know they can't seduce, Who, unattainable, drives them insane. Raving grief and self-absorbed, they never see The unnoticed girl at the back of the room. Her charms are countless, and she would bestow them free. With any attention she'd burgeon and bloom! Faithless, callow words and empty promises Foolishly claiming none other compares, Would w

It sounds like a rock in stream. Not quite wrong, as in a dream. Robbed, it lets loose a raw scream, from lungs that rot. It may seem quite senseless, but it has rhyme.