Love Among the Romantics


A prayer to progress in the invisible
realm turns forward closer toward its
goal a lost soul forever forlorn.

The missing wounded parts of us wander in
the dark, hollering to be thought of
and restored to original form.

Former Selves useless partial unless reborn
whole as mended garments worn well by
broken down poets, love among the

romantics happens to pour through us all once
before moving far onto someone
else’s conscience. Thrown down by preying

oblivion waiting to swallow hard our
lost crushes’ dust, to open up what
was, to lust after befores, borrowed


yesterdays tomorrow pays hearts instead of
facing failure. Howling whole falls no
wall’s half-hearted wailing could ever

overpower and reverse, nor restore this
war’s faithless corps to its horde’s graceless
performance of pouring forth hollow

verse offering nothing. When pens are worse than
swords for whom this hell toils, time tolls its
tell until it works over, and sells

out, and breaks down, when inward our ups would have
flown. How low the settled score, poor sore
solar soar of wax-worn wings the blurred

bitterness of our sour scourge was to go, slow
falling even as we were taking
off. Taken off markets that fast off


course, of course that we might know now how proud it
sounds, too loud to write of loss and yet
somehow still stand, silent and patient,

maybe way too complacent. Ascend once crashed,
somehow feel how others feel, alone,
to be paid attention for having

mentioned firsthand how it felt to have gone down,
to have been outgrown by the clothes we
chose to throw off in those close call choice

moments when choosing to take any stand would
have been more becoming of men so
exposed. To keep on devouring with

irreverent hunger of lovers driven
to cannibalism every last
sunset-scented poisonous flower’s


lurid lustre glimmering to gritted glint
laughter’s wickedest trick, its echo’s
unforgiving complicity with

guilt. Knowing full well this chemical’s fragrance
which complicates and casually
comfortably kills any desire

until its thirst drips blood enough to quench what
one ought to get in order to give,
vengeance on no other life to live

but this, as the axiom says. Breathless wreck
idiomatic loathing boasting
in blasts of idiosyncrasies

this idiolect of ours abhors, bad words.
Occulted verbs cloaking madness’ had
intentions, clouding perception to


full storm, obscure perfumed whores written off by
the foul-spelling world hurling our way
their strained, craven permutations of

four letters for having been bested by this
dreadful glamour that does unsettled
restlessness better. Tarred and feathered

after roared applause purred for having starred in
a prurient banquet scripted by
beggars, impoverished screenwriters

paupered by the whole illusion their work served
to starve, that it was ours to make off
with first. This magic is the school which

meets at night and it comforts me when I am
alone. And when alone it comforts
me I am this magic which night is.