Baby-blue poets crisping clouds fried symboleers

Baby-blue poets crisping clouds fried symboleers

Motto:

Loud, heap miseries upon us

yet entwine our arts laughters low!

I) Incant / Discant

You, baby –, baby-blue poets

of whom (as I might remember)

"each separate dying ember

wrought its ghost upon the floor"

Listen!

lease me an

amber-armoured Lenore

a digital Lenore

you say I might need

to vanguard my very front door

against merchandised-sub-nuclear-machine-guns-of-whispers

against hamburgerised never & nevermore

You, baaaaaaaby –, baby-blue poets

of whom (I might have been told)

flesh'n blood mechanisms were supposedly trained

by the brave-new-world & later sold

as tourists’ guides – worn-out and stained

&

of whom (I might have been read about)

little grey neural spare-parts

are giving the mile-stoned Angels out

Listen!

lease me an

initiation ticket for the Craft that I believed'it gone

the Craft of signs & words

&

of the signs of the words & so on

You, baaaaaaaby –, baby-blue poets

dressed in baby-blue silk suits, baby-blue collars & baby-blue ties

of whom (I might say)

poem-like-sacred-books never vanishes or dies

Listen!

lease me an

Arcimboldian look

to de-compose thy faces

to LCD-ers, onliners, & blog mongers

& win their goodwill, benevolence, and graces

for visions of ‘once-upon-a-time’ and ‘had-beens’

visions of true/good/beautiful never revealed before

by your paper-back so called Lenore

by your pixelised never and/or nevermore

II) Fowl revelation

& the baby-blue poets eventually came by…

Like the smoke of dead leaves burned late in autumn came by—in fact it was one of them only who came by.

& as he came by, I saw an old man. All dressed in white shrouds.

“There is no more baby-blue poet left,” he said.

"Sub Divinitate triumviro poetae sunt...gladiator, bombardarius, iustitiarius. Ac hi omnes sub se habent particulares artifices," he said.