The Sultans of Swing

The songs that I listen to have grown old
The singers have faded.
But it seems that I do not have the heart for anything new.
Any such wishes are merely an affectation
An attempt to appear less jaded
Than I have become. I am sold
On the idea of decadence. The old queen
Who demanded youth at her gatherings.
But was secretly hoarding even the cobwebs
Of every light and prop and lyric of every scene
Of every old video in a new DVD.
But was secretly singing The Sultans of Swing.

How much poetry passes me by

How much poetry passes me by
Clever words drop and die on the tram tracks
And an alcoholic tide carries them away
And among the lines of code
And within the wilderness of home
And crushed beneath the priorities of work
And calls
And emails
And deadlines to be met
How much poetry passes me by
How much poetry is dead.

No one notices, they walk on by
Trampling my poetry under foot.
It is dead, I cry, but no one notices
They walk on by.

It is tame, I know, to cry for those choices
That I have lost out of weakness
Or fear of lack and the voices
That said I was wrong.
But it remains thus, this is my choice
And I must try
And be strong and not cry
Just because this much poetry passes me by.

Ascetic Eyes

He has ascetic eyes
And his only vice
Is scotch, but his drinking
Is discreet and does not disguise
His ascetic eyes.