A long song

A song for the sins, thank god for them,

For the flesh and wounds,

Cleaned up with the juice of long forgotten sour grapes.

A song at the mercy of wind,

Heard at the turn with a house of ill repute,

And blinding lights,

Like pitch black with occasional reds,

The song that was heard till the morning,

Of the birds and flowers,

Of old things and lovers,

Of lights that slide through the eyes,

And kisses, broken at the turn of dice.

A song for the snow,

Under the dead tree in the desert of hopes,

Taken for granted,

Like the snow, the brother that lived away,

And the tree, the brother that lived here in its death.

A song for the lies of the employed romantics of life,

Of automated replies, neckties, and ethical culture.

A song for the singers of elegies, and for the mourners,

A song with much hated love,

From the corners of the streets holding the hostages of conscience,

Dipped in cheap rum and powdered foreign whores,

A song from around the time, a song for this time.

Played with the instruments buried in ground of mores,

And sang by little pet rats and dogs and cats,

And the little old man fixing the soles of brats.

A song so long I dare not sing,

I dare not complete,

So otiose,

I dare not write.

_