The people attend funerals.
They visit the mausoleums.
They frequently go there
With flowers in their strong hands.

Who hears the cry of the beleagured?
Who wipe tears from the soft cheeks?
Who look into the broken lives?
Who prepare the path for walking?

There has been a routine,
A habit with black gowns since long.
Who will erase the word War
From the walls of their minds?

We are the might.
We must take arms against injustice.
We must ride courage and bravery
And **** the devils of thoughts.

What is it that roars in the distance,
O, mankind who's soul shall be made to weep
It is the bellow of The Lion
As he prowls upon his keep.

The Lion is the comupance of your sins, my boy
His glare the road to perdition
His teeth the the small brush
with which you clean the floors
of the stalls of Hell.

Janitor has one eye and
Railroad cap.
He knows the ropes
He has been long employed

Spitoon laying sideways
Shows the slow tenure.

Rotted tooth teaches wisdom
No comely comfort in
Convalecent Cell of Hell

Men in fedoras
The thought that
There are neons
and noir outside
And The Ghost of Lust

But none produces the tentacle tingle
My geriatric genitals swoon no more
at Turn of the Century Erotica
In that is cheap Irony.

Eeerie green light from gacious lamp
Shows spirits in the curtains
In the pictures
on the tin-types of the ancestors

"It is always about ten in the morning here, Witty"
"That is a nice time to be"
"But your favorite time was eleven thirty, was it not?
and also April and all her tulips and fertile smell?"
"Yea"
"It's March.."
"****..."
Did not even get capitalized because the soul is destroyed.
Beleagured.
Doomed (******).

Legerdemain with words you are poet
but you are blind to the blood, or the Middle East
Storm. You write of your love, but not love of a beleagured
cosmos.
You are frivolous in many ways, publish or perish is your
encrypted symbol or motto.
You smell the whiff of flowers and write a poem
not blood. You lap up what is shown in television
and ape the developed, shopping malls and the Prime
Minister's latest philosophy. So you will do anything '
to attend a lit fest, won't you? Yes, I did it, but now the ephemera
of events bore me. But secretly I tell you given the chance,
I will attend, so that my washy face appears on television.

Poet, I will tell you one thing.
There is no point in writing if it doesn't
move the wind, the trees and charlatans.
Don't expect rewards. Look for awards
by hobnobbing and then protest. It is very simple.
People like protests, especially from poets and writers.

Do some homework. Go back to school
and take teaching lessons.