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The Scum Gentry Alternative Arts and Media
The Scum Gentry New Poetry Magazine, dark poems and poetry online.

Trilogy - poem by Laurence Vougiouklakis

MY DILETTANTE

You ask me who she is, for the name of this, my,
Dilettante.
Licensed by petulance, her keen eyelashes
Seem, especially at night, to assume the coherence
Of algebras, trigonometries.
Her name is Fortunata, harbinger of such symphonies
The likes of which
You’ve never heard; rejoice! rejoice!
For right now she carries to us a basket of pears.


HOW I GOT INTO POEMS

There have been voices, always, in the House of God
And the Marketplace, speaking ill of sloth
Condemning profligacy with cold spittle.
I was baptised in the hedge growth, crepuscule;
Where sirens sang, storm signals signalled night
A cluster of girls returned up from shore
All of the world’s misery and beauty there
As I played cards in the belvedere;
Forty Thieves and Solitaire.
Leering deeply into the past, wishing it may recur,
One never knows what the symbols represent
Until they are shattered into shards
Useless.


DEATH RUMINATION

To die whilst one is dreaming: O! holy night!
Bring me six huge pillows,
Bring me a satin rug, rosary beads, switch on the
Radio;
I will reflect on rainy embraces,
Back-alley smoke.
I see the universe as an inverted dream,
A bubble of fond and tender folly;
My knuckles tremble.
The whores are dancing outside my
Frosty window, singing hymns of castigation,
“No more kisses, no more at all.”

To die in one’s twenties seems bold,
All that blood, those bones, the flesh and cells,
They really did exist after all, and it’s such a pain now
To hear laughter and traffic.

So send me to your prison,
Wrap your cuffs around my wrists and shave my
Peasant’s head
Lock me in your concrete box, I’ll send for a Bible.
The train I ride is hidden,
It cuts through time,
Its passengers blink at catastrophe, they wince at
Heaven.
I travel light, I tread lightly
Through preposterous darkness.
I am ravaged by illusions,
I flatter the Angel of Death with deceit,
You will not reach me now.
There are things to do before one dies
Or so it seems,
But what of this foretold pestilence?
What was your part in it?
Fury conveyed in oils,
The famine of the heart;
Night has fallen,
Come and see.


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