To wit, what farther I from black dong's shadow light
In fear of my ensuing blight to gray
Without the purples of his shadows, and the greeds his eyes?
Without my greed, without the lust that lives and dyes?
Arise.
From loss or lack of property, the last estate
The Prince vacated now his grounds,
But still must stand.
He, Prince of neon heavy bowed and weighed
With hound's tooth shadows on his mortgaged grave,
Had bent his hand around those branches now are felled.
So where entomb,
But neon gardens of the world?
Though none is mine.
The head is heavier without its crown of lead,
The cheek has ripened and has shed its down
But so
The neon kingdom grows between the gaps,
Though ripped, again, by the caretaker's claw.
And garden boys who sported now are dead by their own hands
Our blooms, now cheap Osirises and paper Hels
Now pasted varnished Romeos and Juliets
Without redress, what now!
Oh what
What poverty and poverty of life in this
The prayer for sustenance to rattling pods
Oh wealth and poverty, pajama pants, patina'd socks beneath a trailing seam.
Oh Prince of ruin, flaming tower and thorn
Burn down them all so your estate may thrive.
They die,
They move aside so he may live?
But why so many princes rose and fell,
Could not his tiny palace shed its rents
Forget
Forget the debts and flap the sceptre in his private dance,
But where?
.
