The season holds a hollow breath and braces for a chill,
The stage is set for summers death, the audience are still.

And when the throng has gone away to seek some other thrill,
The bouquet from your victory day is withered on the sill.

And having seen will you still say your art is not for sale?
When what was sacred yesterday is scattered on the gale?

If dreams that lit the pitch of night by sleight should all grow pale,
And pass away as embers on September's soft exhale?

The whole world is in morning and the evening wears a veil.
And winter wryly yawning as the ships are setting sail.

Salient critics regale cynics with polemic.
Pythagorean pharaohs hypothesise
Pyramids of thought for the masses to realise.

Dry discussions arise on semantics of romantic expression.

Coffee table tremens of crossword citations,
Quotations carry crushing weight,
A suffocating sense of fate,
Resonates from sleepless clocks,
And seeps from ventilation ducts:

'You're stuck!
You're paintings are stuck!
Stuck! Stuck! Stuck!'

I wake up --

Soft ears hear confessions
Spoken softly from a dream:

'Help me - I can't relate to my poetry,
what does that mean?'

'It means nothing love.
Lay coins upon your eyelids,
Spread psalm leaves on your brow.'

'Bring your soul to bare on the here and now.
Let heroes fear for nothing
Never knowing what it means.'

This is the land of Dionysian dreams
Destroyed by the moments in between.

This is the land where hope has died;
Swept to sea on a sceptic tide.

This is the land that reason failed;
In the shallows as the junk ships sailed.

Trailed out; one by one,
In solemn convoy
To a sinking sun.

('¦or some Promethean flame,
Dionysus drank to douse his shame'¦)

And this the eternal Bowery,
Land of the rising slum,
Where oil lamps light
The quays at night,
For ships that never come.

Where poets preached pictures,
Drunkards drew from pitchers,
And painters drew in tongues.

This is the land of iron lungs,
Where searchlights scan the evening skies,
For missals sent from paradise.

In parking lots Eliza cries,
Carthage in her tired eyes.

When all the softly spoken lies,
Are scattered petals at her feet.

When dust carts come,
To clean the street.

And then the tram;
Some numb retreat.

For this is the land where young men dream,
Of death upon the stage or screen.
The front page of a magazine.

The sky's ablaze as if to scream:

'All sins must be repented,
For the night is drawing nigh.'

Our drunken eyes dilated;
Delighted, now, to die.

The moon in bloom is bloodshot
By the moorings of the sky.

Anathema, Alexandria!
The seas you sank are dry.

The wells can weep no waters
For the authors of a lie.

('¦Yet we are so anaemic,
So easy on the eye!'¦)

Zephyrs whisper in our ears
Of where we are to die:

In suicidal morning light?
Or nitrous oxide of the night?
The quayside in the early light?
At high tide if the time is right.

On drifting streets and shifting sands,
Where dead beat poets beat dead beats
On dusty drums with bony hands.

'til silence comes to snuff the land.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...