PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

" . . . sunt lacrimae rerum . . ."

---Vergil, The Aeneid, I

"The semblance of a certain man, certain of his many hatreds, will creep

through the crowded streets of a great metropolis.  He will believe himself

to be an artist:  a painter, he will depict landscapes in the color of war,

pestilence, and genocide; a weaver, the fabric of his weaving will be

a shroud cast over an entire nation; a sculptor, he will carve a massive

headstone in onyx and obsidian that will be raised over his

country's devestated landscape; a composer, he will orchestrate an

infernal Gotterdammerung upon the cacophony of a slaughterhouse;

a fantasist, he will muster words more insidious, more perverse, and

more seductive than any medieval grimoire.  More horrifying than

even the King In Yellow will be this semblance of a certain man

in a brown shirt.  If we cannot extract him from our own history,

perhaps he can be thwarted and throttled in one of the alternate

timelines which, according to some cosmologists, exist in

tandem and similtaneity with our own."

---Taphless Gibler, "On George Steiner's Novela,

The Portage To San Cristobal Of A. H."

"Omnia vincit Amor . . ."

---Vergil, The Eclogues, X

We are the new, evolved, collective man---

a unit without individuals;

and in such unity, we need no souls.

Comic housepainter, us you hope to put

into motion---species superior

to all others, all those inferior

mongrels born in genetic deformation.

But you hope to bring to the Fatherland

its final cleansing and purification.

We will exist, to serve your sole command.

And yet, we do intend to overthrow

you now before you can strangle this nation

and shut its future in an oblong box.

The kind of world that you have long dreamt of

does not give quarter to comforting Love.

No differences in any night or day---

each of them is dismal, starless, and gray.

The price of this is far too much to pay.

But we found this hope where you find despair;

a possible access, once more, to joy:

the most inviting of noticed arousers.

Look at that lovely adolescent boy;

the cascade, in soft ringlets, of his hair;

shoeless and shirtless, clad in baggy trousers,

during the afternoons gladly barefoot

(in evenings' cool, he wears sheer, sky-blue socks;

and, quite reluctantly, draws on a shirt).

He bears the cosmos deeply in each eye;

and pleasure is suggested in his smile.

He is articulate and lights to flirt,

although a bit coy, and a lot more shy.

But he is willing to learn, to discover,

the best way to bring pleasure to his lover;

and one of us will be pleased that he can.

I think his name is . . . ah, yes . . . Tadzio.

Boys like him you despise, hate, and revile---

that is but just one reason you must die,

and into Hell's lowest trough you will go.
Your dreams are now transformed to a nightmare.

Your stinking corpse will be found in this place---

a look of utmost horror on its face.

Starward