Young Poets
In the minx browns of Great Eastern Street,
a throbbing cab waits in the pouring rain
while a building implores,
“Let’s Adore and Endure Each Other.”
In the gallery’s late Vorticism,
critics’ pens reel in and sour on
treasonous reviews. A hood
of superior aerodynamic absolutes.
We drink at The Gun, spot
Tracy Emin’s ‘International,’
and then the thundering of the storm.
We’re hurried up; it’s time.
Judgments turn correlative,
ready-to-hand in the penumbra.
My poet friend, a sad pterodactyl,
must hightail to Crystal Palace, so I stroll.
We must not personalize the high church
nor weep for the fallen world or commuters.
Artillery of diminished orders.
Birds chirp loudly, putting faith
in an early arriving dawn.
And the violence of influence
and the red rose wilted
and decline witnessed
through a dirty windowpane.