Poem #56

The garble of gods
some gladiators gossiped…

“At last the sigh of recession: the land
Wells from the water; the beasts depart; the man
Whose shocked speech must conjure a landscape
As of some country where the dead years keep
A circle of silence, a drying vista of ruin,
Musters himself, rises…”

from “Dictum: For a Masque of Deluge”, by W.S. Merwin

Feeling angered by, arguably, adapted apes.
Dangling in the doggerel is like
Kvasir in contact with the most conniverous of cons:
whom dwarves damned in a dominant den,
bleeding out of the brain a beleaguered brew of a blade.

The garble of gods these gladiators gossiped:
a few facts of fable, a few fallibles of fame, a few fossils of floods,
a few fractals of figures factored from a planet’s face;
their past postulation how to postpone
shuffling in sight of St. Peter, or rise from infinite insentious,
to take the total treasures from topiary tables,
apply friction for forests in flames, overflow oil over oceans, forever?

After all answers of apocalypse,

When will the universal womb waste?
The planetary propogation is a process after perfection:
the recursion, the revision, the refrain, to replicate, to reverberate,
“Marvel in the masters of monsters who’ve made it to manna,”
–we are the words written from winners of the world!
We will not give any gauker our grain; go to be gone!
After their quack and their quail, those who gander run.

With descendants of dwarves, what is to be done?
Is there no tragedy tailored for tyrants without the thunder of Zeus?


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