BY CULL PRO CONCORD by D.C. Quillan Stone
16 September 2009
"Ye naked bipeds, without beaks or claws,
Hairless, and featherless, and tender-hided,
Weeping ye come into the world—because
Ye feel your evil destiny decided;"
Voltaire (1694-1778)
Lacking feather, scale, and fur
The vulnerable notion occurs
In soul manifested in body
The Jungian types lowly float
From mind’s night to kind of light
Retreating, betwixt the odd mix
The long Styx-like mélange
Aligning an au courant echelon
The thin line drawn in sketch
Rightly in etch, a correct divide
Between echo and bliss, amiss
The proctor’s lisp and inebriety
(note to self)
Sobriety, a poet’s antagonist
Goddamn the inner flim-flam
Psychology’s fuckin’ conjecture
Voltaire’s eccentric censure
Philosophy’s gray relativity
Curses for those who mourn
With shorn head, born as dead
Prostrating in hot ash and coals
As mere elections to ascend
Rescind again the declination
(a tangential rant)
Sauntering are pompous bastards
Leading crews to bleed in fields
Scorn the sense, the logic
For the austere alternatives
To ascetically be, `tween enemies
By cull pro concord, always
Via volition con violence
Note:
Poem taken from my 6th book MIDLAND (2011). See links/sites for all books, further information, excerpts, commentaries, blogs, etc.
www.DCQuillanStone.com (books) / www.CafePerQ.com (blogs)
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