Sunday, January 17, 2010

This Thing

There’s no victim of fashion
That wants to keep warm
By the fires of penance
Put out by the storm

As it blew from the mountains
Rolled in from the east
And became the great engine
That swallowed the beast

Yet the heart that it powered
Knew only to well
Of the secrets it wanted
But never would tell

To the fury that wallowed
In certain disdain
Of the love of its savior
It never could chain

And the love that they plundered
The critic’s delight
Was a star that was polished
To glow every night

Now the star that we follow
Is screwed to the line
So they know we can follow
It, time after time

Wednesday, January 06, 2010

One momentary lapse of precision

Reclaim something, something solid
Something that meant little
But was attractive for all its
Demure presence

Then breathe it, wash in its unimportance
But most of all treasure
It, protect and then deny it
Because it is a provocative

Thing, yet a tangible intangibility