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( 146 visitor comments )

 

Poetry

 

Life To Thirty-Six

12 May 1987

You're walking like your father now;
That masterpiece in grey
Who aimed himself at emptiness -
A savage all the way.

Bones and toes went inching out
Into older shoes,
The hundred fates, and portents,
Reducing as you grew.

Once you crabbed across the floor,
Your wonders to construe;
The riot of the androgens,
It soon took care of you.

You're walking like your mother now,
A lino-type, self-styled,
Who held the dreams in rubber gloves
Of futures that were tiled.

Fevered brat, and long-lost boy,
I'm on the precipice
Where rubber meets with ochre:
No art, no artifice.

So ask me where they're buried,
The savage and the seer.
The first of many answers
Is that they're buried here.

Seed is sun, and sun is seed;
The future has unrolled.
I'm cast upon the modern age,
Dropped into the modern age,
Like some enlightened emigre,
Chipping at the mold.


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