The Abandoned Ones…

with my mind at its lows
I am to counter all of those
with whim or past whim
ev’rything that goes
into the night of the brand new day
like a closing song
or the last act of a play
gone to the others
in forms of lust and pleasure
when we don’t know
we huddle and gather
to piece ourselves as one
the abandoned hearts of alchemy
we are the ones who describe the night
the dryness and ill-gotten triumphs
of when insatiated forms crash as long
as it takes for the dead ones to come alive
each passing figure, each phantom of fear
grosses the other
and ne’er to the day
the abandoned ones exclaim!

virgin tears of long lost hopes
dry the hearty pains
with this they stalk their captur’d ones
with vigilance to say
that there is no free ones
from the cages of their brains
inside the deepest mountains climbs
the power that drives them on
- they are the rules of deceit
never living down
just what has come of all of this
not good, patronized many are
but they don’t eat the human flies…
it is of themselves ye knows, passing
each dream as a candle
burning to be put out
only resistance to death is self
the ember calms the night
as they chew their brains to dust
the abandoned ones prays to gods
that created them from lust

and so answer me
why we all pretend
that this is not what appears to be
when each and all belong
to the society or the spirits will
and when they run for change instead or apathy
we only label them tyranny…



ШАМРО


April 29, 1987

© 1987 Private Stock Poetry

It is amazing to me to see that this pome has made it to 20 years. It was believe it or not inspired by a beautiful spring morning in Dunedin, FL and by 10 am it was finished. I called Shiloh at home inbetween classes and read it over the phone. It was what I considered my first masterpiece... youth... I had been in a drought from when I wrote up to ten pomes a day down to not liking a damn thing I wrote.

Yes; this has that juvenile or as Byron put it that false trashy stilted style...but it marked the moment. It was the same kind of moment as when I dropped the needle on the Beatles White Album for the first time or Dylan's Blood On the Tracks... a song to myself in my personal history; when I knew after today every thing would be different...

How many of these days have you yet to mark? How many of these days have you marked?