Laid low on western meadows
cloud shadows roll over his stones
pressed into the warm prairie earth
Mighty Pan, tumbled at the end of
the shaky path he's trod for aeon's
The secret dispatches he'd carried
weigh like death on his soul
his wife, in a fit took to the stage
his children implored, cajoled
even bribed him to find other work
~
The bell rings, Pan shoots from the corner
a grin like a wound opens his fleecy face
the opponent takes lethal advantage
uppercuts tearing off flesh in gobbits
til a deaths-head of bone is all that's left
His speed is gone, street savvy, reflexes
mired down in inexplicable funk
was it the diamond chick at ringside
Barbie's plastic face with million dollar tits
who spread like Danae every time blood flew
~
There's a place in Arkadie where his Master
sat and dripped knowledge while painting
landscapes of a shocking psychedelic nature
dismissed as tawdry 'kitch' by Art News
they burst like napalm in the naked eye
~
Goat eyes, (slit sideways, yellow as suns)
cannot blink, stare straight up
at the shifting dance of ponderous clouds
In the crook of his elbow a bottle
rich, green, fruity muscatel
No vintage wine for Pan, no false pretensions
ragged nails sunk in the dirt
he's always been the people's first desire.
...
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
