April 11, 2010

National Poetry Month 2010, Day 10

Another pseudonymous poem. This is about as much sense as this guy ever makes.

the little people

then the foreign poet
grew angry
with his mistress
the very snowflakes fell
in silence and shame
rimmed with red

we become so small
in the fashionable hours
of the small morning
when we give angels
a monopoly on
the city haunted
by abandoned streetlights
without halos
on the river
i saw smoke settle
so i came back

be here with us
but be wary of three cards
falling at once
they mean trouble
they mean it’s time to go
i know i used to be irish
that was when she liked me
and bits of straw in her hair

don’t dare say it
the little people
don’t impress you
but they keep you
in silk collars
they feed you milk
they give you horns

be careful
when i sing
dancing bears
fall silent
i grow deaf
when midnight comes
for the solemnity of it
when my hearing comes back
from hunting secrets
i’ll carry you far from here
back to my homeland
to live on moss and darkness
until you grow my wings

— Basil Cartryte, 4/10/2010


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