Inhabitants of ¡Grande Arcady!
are given knives instead of jury duty.
The boarders of not-West expect to see
frontiers: black cruise and stars, the weightless beauty
expressed by space, all stuff we got in spades.
It's why the state don't ask for much, and arms
us, why the capital is retrograde
(Pure Baudelaire (don't go, or its alarms
will ring - or, as we say, you'll "trip the rooster")),
and every sunset ride's a keeper. Sold?
Abandon all you knew on Earth, strap booster
propulsion on, dead-reckon realms of gold,
and carve a god. You'll need your own Osiris -
The constitution of the ship requires it.
1 comment:
This is a taste of the "modern sonnet" as opposed to the legitimate traditional? Sad, but well written otherwise. Again, the theme of the crown almost seems prevalent as composition takes up its pen. Cliches and eerie reality yawns on the hapless. Wowers. Despite its sorry turn, I enjoyed it. You write too well.
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