Love is not worth a lifetime for

Love is not worth a lifetime for;

Only Death brews lifelong—

To the lips, coursing drunk, wherefor

Have all the daft lovers gone?

Love lost Her grapple for;

For the grope and the throng—

For the Great Lamb in Paramour

Hast raped the muddy Swan!

Why not lust one life evermore,

Than allow dust t’prolong?

Till Nature’s thrust comes nevermore

In Love’s blinding singsong—

Man’s propensity t’score;

To steal and have a proclaimed Prong,

To flaunt hither and thither for

Coiling Women’s diphthong—

They do lie well in double-score;

By speech, divides the tongue—

Emotion purged in loss and lore:

Love’s tale doth best Her song.

Love is not worth a lifetime, for

Life’s but a world furlong—

For living passion is cocksure

T’surpass in gobs among

The maid and the maiden’s door—

Through in and out, along

Slinky moans and a silk contour

It’s Lust in love’s sarong!

What is love that was not lust before?

Mayhaps a word, or a strong

Odor exuded from the Core;

Or A-night stand oblong?

The misconception lies, therefore,

‘Tween Love and Lust’s erelong

State is not a hair-splitting roar,

But the placement of Tongue.

Silence

Silence is more, or less, superior

To three thousand thundering horses;

Three thousand ages vividly depressing

Gold, metallic life to just know another—

Wanton of poetry’s frugal Coursers,

Three thousand SCREAMED!

And were Silent.

Dead Men

Dead are the sleeping men,

Dead by their marching drone.

Awakened bare by a bare word--

As a bare Fruit of a seasonal branch

Bare of it's yellow leaves--

Bare is the shrilling word

Of Death, frozen silent on the wind;

(Lucid men sing of dreams,

Sleepers dream of singing;

Lo, Dead Men do not dream at all,

Nor sing within dreams for it cuts their tongue.)

Wild-eyed, bare sabres, land

On bosoms made from Lust,

Glint Silver in a wistful hand:

"Make ready the cannon!"

Cries the Noblest of Muck,

Scrounge to face'em when rest'him dies:

A trial gun and the saving crumbs pluck,

And the naked ape sighs

On the World's crank, "Yo! Ho!"

As the call of Death wakes the cock.

Economic cannons

Blast brigades of Dead Men,

As a sabre splays reddened mead

From a grayish globe spurting steam, laying

Dreamers beneath as seed;

Scythed weeds for a crooning plot,

Though, Dead Mean sing no Songs:

…And the dead men are the lost men;

The working men of Nature's slumber;

These irate men with pirate gin

Grow cold in their waste and plunder.

But with a wistful grin and wishful eye

They throe and take for Pride,

And the wistful cringe is a fleeting Sin

Upon the beggar who's ready to die...

But dead are the sleeping

Men; heaving more debt for bread.

Their scaly yearns as sorrow's clash

Dismay; lost by lows of a deeper rung,

And with a croaking lung

On an awkward bier,

They speak, "Silence," and no one hears.

With a dying tongue they speak their greatest word;

Of Dead Men dying, no one's ever heard.