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parade of singulars
Parade of the Singulars
Plato sold tickets to the cave,
while Elvis tuned his sequins
to beat-off shadows.
Helen waved from the balcony,
unsure if it was Troy or tabloids
burning below.
Attila rode in, not on horse
but on talk‑show couch,
Oprah nodding as he confessed
the secret to pillage was
“location, location, location.”
Sappho passed notes to Colette
under the bored gaze of Aristotle,
who wondered if metre or
metre‑high heels
truly swayed the polis.
Jesus scribbled in the dust,
Liberace leaned over his shoulder—
“Try rhinestones.”
And somewhere in the stands,
Achilles and Twiggy compared
the shine on their perfectly useless armour,
while Nero fiddled back‑up for Sting.
By dusk,
Alexander was selling maps to kingdoms
that now fit in a snow globe,
and Socrates sipped wine with Björk,
debating whether questions or choruses
make better lovers.
The crowd roared. The world spun.
And the Muse — if they were here —
would grin: Every empire ends,
but the after‑party goes on.
