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The former Lord of Jersey stitches pants.
We shape eyes, create beasts for ordination,
Elevate the unspeakable to the highest platter,
Nor love nor hatred but within our banks.
The broth of reasons bubbles with our seasoning;
Young poplars bend their branches towards our reasoning.
For this, we must never forget our pranks.
In dreams, the most trivial deviations matter.
Viewers are eager for mass annihilation.
Each artist makes the universe he haunts.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
