Monday, March 8, 2010

Dear Father

Up in retro Heaven,
our artful game has gone
hollow. There's a dull ring
when you thump it. The Crown
fled, hawked by stylish red
wings, centuries ago.
I wouldn't will fate like that.

Flat upon slippered Earth,
certain of not-before,
the counting Knave reaches
seven. "Gimme a break"
is a dead phrase rarely
spoken gaily. He eats
only unleavened bread.

Down in cold-shouldered Hell,
the Merchant can't forgive
such anachronisms.
His traced-on past loses
its blackened magic when
not held against others.
He'll never tell. Amen.

6 comments:

Jenny Enochsson said...

Great piece this. I really like the provocative tone.

My favorite:

"hawked by stylish red
wings, centuries ago"

Megan Duffy said...

This is gorgeous, Francis. I agree with Jenny,
"hawked by stylish red
wings, centuries ago"

stands out...beautiful plumage

human being said...

loved the web of images and allusions woven together... forming some questions and doubts in the mind... and at the same time offering some clues to answer them...


questions are answers... we should just propose them...


this piece is a wonderful take... especially after that piece on your site, 'bad religion'...

'cold-shouldered Hell' is a wow!

this came to me after reading your poem:




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a................................n
l................................i
l................................y
i................................l
s................................f
a................................s
b................................i
l................................l
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s................................a
s................................f





.

Ande said...

Really aggravating and full of life. It felt liberating reading a poem with such directness and anger. Good stuff!

PO Johnson said...

"(...) our artful game has gone
hollow. There's a dull ring (...)"

This made my morning, Francis.

Claude Limoges said...

Haunting and extremely well-crafted.