Poem #17

A Boast of Punkson Brian Wells…

Adhere the apex of a high hill:
there is a sweet spring. The spring is
made of Kvasir’s blood—the mead that
spilt from the eagle of Odin into the ilk of they who rhyme.
What came out the well of Brian was a
song. So far away soaring in the serpent of the sea
from the Northern bays by many days,
to Vinland, circa modern era,
some in prison would refer to a boy named Punk of rock,
and her or his post-modern landscape of dead dragons in tv mind-machines and adds
boast and brag as the spirits of dwarves to disseminate a message of brands and products
for all the Moderners to own and wear.
Saddened by the loss of independence from Lif’s sons to business kings
worn on their sleeves, Punk Brian shared the message as they, those others,
these Punks before him who professed from their own punk-rocks.
It was an advertisement slogan for life itself:
to look at the actor beneath a Grecian mask as Shakespeare.
We called him the modern law speaker: Skaldic Springs of the High Hill.
January 27, 2016


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