Canto CCLXXX

The point of form is never harmony.
Sure, the end rhymes line up well enough,
the argument ticks over merrily,

but neither chime together like two halves.
Like those profiles aside the candlestick,
when you see one the other one dissolves,

it is this tension that pulls of the trick
of artistry breaching the realm of truth.
Reality is similarly cracked,

it’s full of broken watches and lost gloves.

Canto LXX

I can’t remember the last occasion `
I wrote a poem with a pen and paper.
Back in the day I took out my frustration

on my trusty electronic typer,
a school nativity version of Bukowski,
thinking the sloppy, budget red wine stupor

was inspiration, though the constant, noisy
crash of each key peppered the insipid
exposition of the classics DJ.

The drive time Mozart ditties never lifted
my limpid free verse confessions beyond
the pissed up young man, quasi-Ginsberg standard.

I relapsed though as the millennium turned,
the Moleskine marketing suckered me in,
quality leather covers, perfect bound,

unsuitable for the recycle bin
and so they clog up bedroom drawers instead
with all the scribbled bollocks held within.

So now I ply my noble, bardic trade
by thumbing iambics on a touch screen
while on the top deck of the 68.

Espresso sets the tempo now, not wine,
all soundtracked by patois and rude ring tones,
with one eye on the spirit of the times

I try to keep a grip on the old forms.

Canto XXX

On viewing Bronson’s frown lines in HD
as Morricone’s trumpets frame his glare,
the closure of revenge and destiny.

I think of how the master wrote his score
before a single frame of film was shot
and once again my mind returns to form—

the old music that the rhyme scheme imparts
the soundtrack for our urbane platitudes,
for smart phone thumbs to tap out Po-Mo thoughts.

This constant metric metronome was used
throughout the many centuries by those
that kept the five stress engine running through

the countless wars, the ever aloof muse,
the change of landscape, til the carbon clock
runs out, and longer still, why not? Who knows

if this rock of ages knows the age of rocks?

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