Cleopatra is almost dead. Half-time spectacles of marching bands and cheerleaders elevate up several tiers the current icon to writhe and burn on the Jumbotron, a voice on fire within itself.
Listening to Berlioz’ “Sur les Lagunes,” I find melancholy cloying: “Ah!” That time has been lost, now that romance culls its tone from ironic Daiquiris, all lime on the tongue.
The double-headed ax, each sentence. takes a bite out of embedded nonchalance. and makes you say the opposite of what you mean. At the heart of every soprano lies not having been born a bird.
Aria
ReplyDeleteCleopatra is almost dead. Half-time
spectacles of marching bands and cheerleaders
elevate up several tiers the current icon
to writhe and burn on the Jumbotron,
a voice on fire within itself.
Listening to Berlioz’ “Sur les Lagunes,”
I find melancholy cloying: “Ah!”
That time has been lost, now that romance
culls its tone from ironic
Daiquiris, all lime on the tongue.
The double-headed ax, each sentence.
takes a bite out of embedded nonchalance.
and makes you say the opposite of what you mean.
At the heart of every soprano lies
not having been born a bird.
{Disposable Poem May 31, 2013]
Dr. Mike