Lines Written on a Paper Napkin Tossed into the Fireplace
Mad paper, go, and on the firewood burn.
Spew these rough lines out in a cough of smoke.
I've had enough of you. Cannot return
To this. Destruction be the masterstroke.
As ink turns ash, and words turn not a thing,
Affirm what blowhard poets liked to doubt:
That like this earth all supple sonneting
Will not mean shit when all the lights go out.
Burn questions. Will we always reminisce?
Do lines gleam in a detonated sun?
Can poets claim immortal that or this
When all the cosmos is a shining gun?
Who can believe his own whimper of "It is
Enough to have once been"? No. I am done.
Spew these rough lines out in a cough of smoke.
I've had enough of you. Cannot return
To this. Destruction be the masterstroke.
As ink turns ash, and words turn not a thing,
Affirm what blowhard poets liked to doubt:
That like this earth all supple sonneting
Will not mean shit when all the lights go out.
Burn questions. Will we always reminisce?
Do lines gleam in a detonated sun?
Can poets claim immortal that or this
When all the cosmos is a shining gun?
Who can believe his own whimper of "It is
Enough to have once been"? No. I am done.
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